Behind the Shadows of the Soul I: In your eyes
by Casualis
Summary: Chapter 12 and Epilogue are up. Slash... Mirkwood is under threat and seeks an alliance with Imladris in spite of years of contempt. The younger Prince of Mirkwood is sent as a messenger, but what he will find there is not exactly what he expected.
1. On the road of Imladris

**Behind the shadows of the soul**

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Part I: In your eyes 

Author: Casualis ( Casualis2000@yahoo.fr )

Pairings: Elrohir/Legolas, Glorfindel/Legolas

Rating: R (for the end of the fic)

Warning: SLASH. Means two men together. Don't like, don't read. We have a deal?

Summary: Mirkwood is under threat and seeks an alliance with Imladris in spite of years of contempt. The younger Prince of Mirkwood is sent as a messenger, but what he will find there is not exactly what he expected.   
  


Disclaimer: In my dreams, they are mine and mine alone. Generally, I wake up immediately after dreaming that. 

A/N: First part of the arc 'Behind the shadows of the soul'. You do not need to read the prologue to understand the story.

The story takes place in the year 2610 of the Third Age, the twins are 2480 years old, Legolas is 800 years old. Please remember that we have no information from Tolkien's works about Legolas' true date of birth, while it is said that the twins were born in the year 130 of the Third Age. 

In that fic, I will consider that Glorfindel of Rivendell and Glorfindel of Gondolin were the same person, reembodied after some time spent in the Halls of Waiting.

The story will concentrate on the Elven community (Who asked why?), that's why the Elven characterisations of the places will be used. For instance, Imladris for Rivendell.

Many pieces of information had been taken from the Encyclopedia of Arda, as I am not a specialist of Tolkien's world. I try to be exact, but if you see any mistakes, just let me know.   

* 

_"Love does not begin and end the way we seem to think it does. Love is a battle, love is a war; love is a growing up."__   
  
_

James Baldwin

*

_Between Imladris and the Misty Mountains, Third age, year 2610_

The clearing was bordered by many high trees: beeches, oaks, silver birches… The vegetation was dense and dark, but lit by the sunlight. Anar was high in the sky, proof that the day was well under way. No clouds blocked the warm light and all of nature was awakening under its hot caress. The place might appear as a cozy nest, with the contrast between the light green of the grass and the darker green of the trees. To complete the impression, there were flowers were scattered on the ground, adding to the lit clearing a vast range of colours which endowed it with the air of a feast. A fickle breeze made the leaves of the trees sometimes sing. Their rustlings were as many whispers spoken to the world, increasing the notion that the place was alive. And alive it was. 

But the trees were not the only ones to speak and to sing, every being in the forest added its voice to the magical melody of the forest. The birds which nested in the high trees sang in a melodic voice, fluctuating as the waves of the sea, sometimes high-pitched, sometimes low, their whistles twinning in a natural and beautiful chorus. The insects, buzzed, flying from one flower to another, gathering the nectar offered by nature. 

The clearing was lively and delightful. All the beings of the forest sang their joys in chorus because one of the fair folk was sitting among them, answering their songs by his own, his beautiful and sweet voice echoing those of animals and trees.

Any wanderer would have stopped in front of this idyllic vision of beauty. The elf and the nature looked united. The Firstborn seemed to be a part of the forest, nature accepting him as one of its own.

Often, at the fall of night, in human villages, when every family was reunited next to their fire, the elders related to impatient children old tales and legends about the magic link between elves and nature, this kind of relationship alien to any others species. It was said that elves pull their strength out of this bond and that if it came to be broken, they died. But children laughed when they heard those strange tales. One knew that elves did not exist and that there was no more magic in the forest than in the fields where the wheat grew. But if one of those impudent children were to pass by this clearing, it would have changed its mind.

Because, without a doubt, there was magic in this moment. Elf, trees and animals seemed out of time, their songs and beauties were immortal, such as they. They were a picture of unchanging and eternal beauty.

The elf was immobile. One could swear that, except for the songs escaping his lips, he was indeed a statue. The first thing that graced the beholder's view was his long and shining hair that was like a glittering waterfall of gold which Anar itself enjoyed playing with. The golden mane was held back by many little braids that drew an intricate design on the proud head of the elf. This flamboyant stream framed a delicate and alabaster-made face with angular features. His cheeks were high and well-drawn; his nose, noble and slender; in a perfect harmony between pink and red, slightly parted to make breathing easier, his lips made a sharp contrast with the pale complexion of his skin. But the most fascinating part of his face were his eyes, which were two huge cerulean seas, bordered by long, curved dark eyelashes and surmounted by two delicately arched eyebrows. This elf's face was so fair that one could have mistaken him for a female if it were not for the angular and energetic features. If one still had some doubts about the sex of the beautiful creature in front of them, they could not possibly be mistaken by the high frame, the broad shoulders and the bow-developed arms of the elf. He was doubtless a warrior, whose body had been modelled by many hours of practice on the training fields. 

That was all the human eye would have discerned in the charming and bewitching creature. But if an elf might have ventured into the clearing, he would have immediately noticed that this one was fair beyond Elven standards, that his languid posture was a mere illusion and that, at the slightest sign of danger, he would be up, his bow in hands, ready to aim an arrow at his foe's heart. He would have seen that his handsome features were indisputably Sindarin and that his youth was only apparent because elves didn't age as mortals. He would have also seen that the intricate design made by his braids and the discreet gold broach on his hood marked him as a member of Mirkwood royalty. 

But no one was there to witness the charming communion of the elf and nature.

Suddenly, the elf broke the harmony of the picture. In one swift movement, with all the elegance and the grace characteristic of his race, he was up, scanning the area with a thoughtful expression, but did not seem to find what his eyes sought. Taking a few steps through the clearing and standing in its middle, the Sindarin elf gave a brief whistle that resounded clearly through the woods. Then, he resumed his still pose, apparently waiting for something or someone. But he did not have to wait for long as, some seconds later, the unhurried pace of a horse reverberated through the trees and a white stallion emerged from the wooded surroundings, halting near the elf, who fondly patted the neck of the animal

"Are you well rested, my friend?" asked the golden-haired being of his magnificent companion in the Elven language that all animals understood so well. 

For an answer the powerful stallion contented himself with blowing through his dark nostrils and with pawing the soil with the edge of his right hoof. The elf let out a musical laugh and caressed the sleek neck. Then, twining his fingers in the white mane, he jumped effortlessly on the strong back of the horse. Once his balance steadied, he told the proud animal:

"Noro lim, Naralod. This message must be quickly brought to Imladris and if we do not hurry, we will never reach the border before the sunset. "

Tilting his long and fine ears to show his elf that he had understood, Naralod immediately obeyed his rider, breaking into a trot. Slowly the silence returned to the clearing. There was no trace left from the passage of the elf. One could have believed it to be a dream.

*

Legolas, third son of Thranduil, himself son of Oropher, the one who had heroically died in the last war against the dark Lord, was bothered. If anyone could have good reasons to be upset, it was he. He still didn't understand why his royal father had been so insistent about the fact his urgent message had to be delivered by one of his sons and not by one of the usual messengers. But well… When his father had an idea, no one could possibly make him change his mind. The rider's mind slowly drifted to the scene that took place two weeks ago in the audience hall in front of the whole court.

King Thranduil had summoned his three sons to decide who would assume the important duty of taking a missive to the Lord of Imladris. Even if no word had been uttered, it had surprised everyone that, after centuries, if not millennia, of contemptuous ignorance and not very well hidden disdain for the Peredhel Lord and his realm, the King turned to him to seek an alliance and find a new strength to fight against the increasing darkness threatening Mirkwood.

"One of you has to take my request for a council. I want him to leave tomorrow at dawn. Who will go?"

The tone of the King's voice had been icy, his gaze and his stance betraying both his weariness and his feeling of failure to have to ask for help. It had been more than clear that his demand had brooked no discussion. One of them had to go… The problem was to determine whom. The three brothers had exchanged swift glances, trying to discern the others' intentions. 

None of them had the desire to go to this Peredhel realm, which they had never heard anything good about. But one of them had to go and none of the three Mirkwood Princes had been eager to sacrifice himself in favour of the two remaining ones. There had always been little affection between them since their early childhood, they were doubtless too different from one another, in age and in character. 

Vercatauro, the crown Prince, was the one who had the strong temper and the unwavering will of their father, a nice way to say that he was a very stubborn elf. Raised as the future King, he was a little bit manipulative and used to see every one attending to his wishes. Legolas had immediately seen that he would have done or said anything to avoid going to Imladris. He had seen that same sparkle in his Sailacel's, his other brother's, gaze. While the Crown Prince and Legolas had inherited their father's features, Sailacel had their departed mother's dark mane and grey eyes, which he knew very well how to use to his advantage. 

The youngest Prince stifled a groan at the memory of his brothers' arguments. They had been pitiful, but the King had accepted them, apparently too preoccupied to see that they were blatantly lying. By the Valar, how could his father have believed what they had told him? No one had ever seen Vercatauro preparing a journey by himself, least of all, a political visit with the human farmers who were allowed to cultivate fields at the east of the Kingdom. As their father, he despised humans and never gave them an unnecessary thought. But they were useful to the Kingdom, keeping inhabited some distant parts of Mirkwood where no elf would ever wish to walk, even less to live. They kept the darkness away and, for this reason only, were tolerated. Every two years, the King or one of his councillors journeyed toward the eastern border to see if the human villagers had succeeded in defending themselves against the attacks of orcs or wargs. But, this year, Vercatauro had been charged to take his father's place. "It is time for my heir to learn how to perform a King's duty" their father had announced. The two younger princes had had a lot of trouble suppressing the laughter that had threatened to escape their lips when they had looked at their brother's features. Vercatauro had not been delighted at all and, even though he had managed to keep it well hidden in front of the court, his two brothers knew him too well not to see through the mask he had been wearing. He was an open book to his siblings, not like Sailacel who was the best of them at the game of hiding his true intentions. Only some indiscretions and gossip among his warriors had enabled Legolas to discover that, if his brother had decided to negotiate himself the annual purchase of commodities, it was rather for the sake of the trader's daughter rather than for that of trading interest. And, facing this avalanche of dutiful activities, Legolas had only been able to advance his leadership of the southern patrols, which had been no match compared with his brothers' reasons not to take the message to the Peredhel Lord. 

That was why he found himself now on the road of Imladris, somewhat bored by his brothers' attitudes and with no idea how he would be welcomed in the vale. 

*

_Five leagues from the southern border of Imladris  , Third age, year 2610_

"I told you to be prudent!"

"I was…"

"You were not…"

"I tell you I was!"

"If you were cautious, why are you injured?"

The forest, usually quiet and not troubled, was agitated by the cries that could be heard from far away. The noise from the quarrel was so loud that even the birds remained silent, disturbed from their usual activities. It was as if the whole world had stopped what it had been doing and focused on the exchange of reproaches.

"It is merely a scratch!!! Why are you so angry?" The first voice rose strongly to die on an unbelieving note.

"Why are you so stubborn?" came the inflexible answer. The anger in the voice seemed to subside a little bit when the speaker added: "You could have died. Your attention was diverted and if I did not warn you, you would be dead. Do you hear me? You would be dead!"

The four last words were screamed rather than spoken. All life in the forest froze in place at the pain and the distress that could be heard in those simple words. The one to whom these words were addressed seemed to be very aware of the feelings of the speaker. He only got up and gathered the trembling and distressed form of his brother in his arms. With an unsteady voice, as he faced his own turbulent emotions, he tried to soothe him with comfort and love words. 

"Hush, Elladan. I am here and I am well. Muindor… I am here. I am here"

He was speaking in a lulling undertone and the meaning of his words had little importance. All that mattered was the fact that his brother was suffering because of his own negligence. However, his close presence seemed to calm down the eldest of the Peredhel twins, as he heard the heavy concern and anguish in his brother's voice. His grasp on Elrohir's tunic relaxed slightly and silence fell over their desperate embrace.

Then, bit by bit, the forest livened up, the birds resuming singing and tweeting and the leaves resuming rustling and whispering. The usual serenity of nature came back to the place it should have never left, soothing the twin figures enfolded in each other's arms, cradling each other, as though each was afraid to lose the other.

They had no idea of the picture they were offering to the gazes of the wild animals. If one could have seen them, they would have been mixed between an overwhelming feeling of fondness in front of the mirrored images' embrace and a feeling of horror. Horror because that expression of brotherly love took place on a bloody battlefield. All around them, the corpses of slaughtered orcs watered the thirsty soil with their dark blood. Many weapons were discarded on the ground: swords, scimitars, bows and many others. Branches were broken and discarded all over the ground, adding testimony to the apparent violence of the battle. Dark orcish arrows were embedded in the trunks of the surrounding trees. Bushes, flowers and grass had been stamped on by the heavy steps of the foul beasts. All around was the true picture of desolation and devastation. But in the center of this image stood hope. Even covered with their foes' blood, dishevelled, their dark curls soaked by blood, sweat and mud, the two brothers gave off an air of serenity and peace.

The eldest twin raised his head to meet his brother's gaze. Gray eyes crossed gray eyes in a silent prayer. His words were so soft that his twin might have not heard them if he didn't have the sharp hearing of elves.

"Swear me you will be careful. I was so frightened when he raised his sword to you. I do not want to lose you, muindor-nin. What would I do without you?"

Elrohir contented himself with smiling and softly pressing a tender kiss on his brother's forehead, the expression in his gaze unreadable. Then, pressing his cheek to his brother's and tightening his grasp on his waist, he murmured: 

"I swear, Elladan. For your sake, I swear that I will be more careful".

TBC…


	2. Beneath Ithil's light

Disclaimer and other babble in the first part

Beta-reading by the wonderful Bev. Thank you so much!

**

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_Seven leagues from the eastern border of Imladris, Third age, year 2610_

Legolas stopped his mount with a sigh. He let his gaze roam over the darkened landscape. Anar had disappeared from the horizon some time ago and the sky turned now to a deep shade of dark-blue. He was well aware that, soon, even his keen sight would not enable him to see anymore where he was going. The wisest choice was to set up a camp where Naralod and he would take some rest before resuming their journey at sunrise. Cautiously observing his surroundings, he decided that this place seemed safe enough for the night. Neither his horse nor he needed a lot of comfort. The essential things for both their survivals were a large and tall tree for him and some tender grass for Naralod to graze and this place provided both.

He let himself slide from the back of his horse, his feet lightly landing on the ground. Releasing his grasp on the silky mane of the horse, he allowed the white stallion to take his rest. He didn't need to take more care of him. Elven horses were not broken in as humans' horses were. They didn't accept any constraint. They were free souls that submitted themselves to elves of their own free will. There was a kind of unwritten agreement between them. No one could force those proud animals to do things they did not wish to. Elven riders never compelled their mounts, but always asked it of them. Many men envied the elves their horses, proud and beautiful, still wild yet nonetheless obedient, but they never understood that the bond between Firstborn and horses was, above all, an issue of mutual respect. 

Legolas watched the white figure vanishing from his sight, shadows overwhelming it in the course of his progression through the darkening forest. Only the light chewing noise that his keen ears picked up moments later told him that the magnificent stallion had found a place at his liking. Once he was sure that Naralod was well enough, he decided then to take care of his own needs. He raised his gaze to observe the trees around him, observing their trunks and their foliages, listening to them. All were tall and ancient beings, whose singing voices happily welcomed the young Prince, each of them offering him shelter for the night. But Legolas had already made his choice and he headed for the oldest one, the one which was the wisest and whose songs were the strongest and the most bewitching. Like all of his kin, he was naturally attached to the trees and to their wisdom. Trees were holders of the knowledge of time, watching the mistakes of the walking beings and, contrary to them, learning from their mistakes. They were an immense fount of knowledge, always eager to share their experiences with the Firstborn, who knew how to listen to them. Because, like them, elves were immortal and wise. From immortality arose wisdom. 

The oldest tree was a gnarled oak, whose trunk was large and sturdy. Its foliage was high above the ground and its denseness prevented the elf from seeing the stars shining in the sky. Legolas put his hands on the old trunk, feeling the roughness of the bark under the tender skin of his palm, feeling also the energy emanating from the tree. With a single glance, he assessed the distance between the top of the oak and him and, without any hesitation, he began to climb with all the agility and grace that could only be found among the elves. When he reached the top of the tree, he sat on the strongest limb and gazed lovingly at the sky. Eärendil was shining brightly as usual, showering on Arda its bright light of hope.

Coming back to more a down-to-earth matter, the golden-haired elf pulled some pieces of dried fruit out of the bag that was slung across his shoulder. Absently, he began to nibble at his food while looking around him. Wherever he directed his keen sight, he encountered the same dark mass that was the foliage of the forest trees. He looked to the east, trying to catch a glance of the forest of Mirkwood, but soon gave up. His realm was too far from him to be seen, even at the top the tallest tree, as the dark heights of the Misty Mountains were erected in the horizon, their sharp edges standing out on the starry sky. He leant against the trunk, feeling the rough bark against his back, letting the spirit of the tree soothe away his melancholy. Silent comfort words were exchanged, quelling the turmoil of his emotions, but even all the wisdom of the ancient soul could not chase away his fears for his realm.

Darkness threatened to overwhelm Mirkwood.

Legolas was one of the youngest elves of his realm, he was barely eight hundred years old. Even if he had lived many human lifetimes, he was still young by Elven standards and his siblings never let him forget it. He had never known his realm at the time it was called Greenwood the Great. When he was born, many people had already taken  to the habit of calling the woods, Mirkwood. He had grown up at the same time as the shadow in his beloved forest. When he had been but an elfling, the only danger had consisted of the presence of some spiders and wargs, which preferred to avoid any contact with the elves' wrath. But centuries had passed and with them had vanished the fear that the dark creatures might have. The power of darkness had increased and so had the number of the threatening beasts. Slowly they had spread on the ground, chasing the elves to the heart of the kingdom, within the stonewalls protecting the palace. Yet, he could still remember a time when Mirkwood was a joyful forest, full of songs of nature and laughter from elves. He had been very young then. No more than an elfling, wondering at the beauty of nature. But, now, it was not safe anymore. No one could wander outside the walls and through the trees without feeling the gaze of deep red eyes full of hatred fixed on them or without encountering spiders. The non-fighters, the elflings and the young soldiers not fully trained were not allowed to go out. Only well-experienced warriors were permitted to leave the protective walls to go out and hunt. Many elves had left Mirkwood for the Undying Lands and there were not enough elves left to counter the increasing flood of attacks against the realm. 

Darkness was everywhere. No month passed without an announcement of a death of one of the hunters. Immortal life was not granted anymore and Legolas feared for the people he had left behind him. An irrational fear that he had never felt before. It was true that things had become worse of late. Three days before his departure, four of his most experienced warriors had been slain in an encounter with orcs and wargs.   

Mirkwood could not be allowed to fall.  

Whatever happened, whatever sacrifice was needed, Mirkwood should not fall. Such an event would endanger the whole of Arda. And no one could accept that. Least of all, his father, King Thranduil. No amount of pride could justify the fall of his Kingdom. Since the end of the Last Alliance and the supposed destruction of Sauron's power, Mirkwood had lived on its own, blocked from the other elven realms, establishing trade agreements with dwarves and men for supplies they could not provide by themselves. But this situation could no longer remain. A new orcish activity had been discovered around the fortress of Dol-Guldur and many feared that, soon, elves would be taken to breed more of the hated orcs in the hideous tower. Wood elves were helpless when confronted with this situation. As much as it grieved him to admit it, they were too few to solve the problem by themselves. Mirkwood needed help, the wood elves needed help and that help could be only provided by his father's enemy: Lord Elrond Half-Elven, Lore Master of Imladris. 

It was no secret among their kin that there was little love left between the two rulers, even if only they, and maybe Galadriel and Celeborn, could explain why. The two realms were not hostile, but the lack of understanding between the two leaders had repercussions upon relationships between the two people. Legolas couldn't help smiling when he thought about the efforts that the message he brought must have cost to his stubborn father. He himself had little inclination for the Noldor folk, even though he had more than rarely crossed their paths. But Mirkwood needed help and whatever his thoughts might be and how much his father's pride might be wounded, he would be eternally grateful to Lord Elrond if he surmounted his own loathing to help them. 

On this final thought, the youngest prince of Mirkwood let his mind drift to the realm of Elven dreams, his keen senses still focused on the silence around him, ready to react to whatever might befall him.

*

_Imladris, Third age, year 2610_

Lord Elrond seemed to be looking at the vale from the large balcony of his room, both hands on the fine iron-forged rail in front of him. He was standing tall and straight, his gaze glazed and slightly dilated, unseeing of his surroundings, as though lost in a personal and pleasant dream. The one who would have seen him at this very moment would have felt a chill travelling the length of his spine. Even clothed in a simple white silk robe, with his long black hair left unbraided and free down his back, he emanated a glow of power, wisdom and an inflexible will, which never ceased to impress those who met him for the first time. Many stories were told about him, some true, others false. His name was in many books and he would rather have forgotten some of the tales that were told about him. But, unfortunately, elves had a very good memory, especially those he had known for a long time. Glorfindel, for instance, had taken to the awkward habit to speaking of his tempestuous youth. When this happened, it took him all the discipline he might have gathered during his millennia of existence to prevent himself from blushing. No one was fond of being reminded of the follies he might have done, especially when that one was a proud and dignified elf-lord known for his wisdom. Even though these regretful events took place a long time ago, there was naught to be proud of. 

But, tonight, his thoughts were neither upon his life, nor upon the battles he had fought, won or lost, nor upon the magic beauty of his realm. They were focused on his torn family and especially on his sons. 

His sons… No more little elflings rushing to him when a problem was occurring or trying to hide the results of their last mischief. No. Two proud warriors whose behaviour sent him back to his own distant youth, when he was exploring Arda with his brother with the eagerness of their age. He had also lived the complexity and love that could bond two twins, but never had he felt the deep rage or the unceasing anger running in his sons' blood. 

Since their mother's departure for the Havens, their life had been a continual fight against the creatures that had mercilessly tortured her. Restless, they organized large hunting trips, which kept them away from Imladris for many months, if not many years. They fought bravely, rivalling in ardour and courage. Both were highly skilled and their fame had spread to the other Elven realms. They were all a father could wish his sons to be. He was proud of them. 

But he missed them.

Here was the matter. The house seemed empty without them, without their perpetual fights and their reverberating laughter. 

But he couldn't blame them. They had their own way of coping with the suffering. Every one in his family was coping in his own way. His only daughter, Arwen, was spending more and more time in her mother's land, in the golden Lorien. His sons were pouring out their thirst for revenge by a vain attempt to exterminate the orcish race from Arda. And he, he tried to forget the horror by drowning himself in the ruling of his realm. None of them spoke of what had happened. The pain of the loss was too fresh, too vivid. Elves were not accustomed to face such grief. Elrond was worried by the silence of his children, by their apparent refusal to acknowledge the reality. A century had passed since the fateful day of his wife's departure but, to him, it seemed as if it had been yesterday that he had seen for the last time her bottomless blue eyes tainted with sadness, the faint smile that illuminated her sweet features, her pale blond hair catching the light of Anar. He knew that his children were feeling the same guilt as he for not knowing how to make her stay. 

But, most of all, he was worried for the twins. Arwen used to speak to him of her stay in Lorien, maybe because both were so alike. He knew, even if the beloved name of his wife was never uttered, that she sought solace in the simple pleasures of Galadriel's realm, which reminded her of her absent mother. He was aware that she had found there a peace that was denied to her elsewhere. And, even if his heart ached for not being able to see her more often, he was happy for her. But he also knew that such solace didn't exist on Arda for his sons.

Because revenge would bring no peace to them. 

Because even when no orc would be left alive, they would still feel resentment for not being able to help their mother. 

Because killing orcs was a way for them to avoid facing the guilt they were feeling, a way to carry their wrath forward someone other than themselves.

Elrond Half-Elven let go an inaudible whisper. But the night caught well the name murmured to its ear. It was a beloved name, full of longing and despair. A simple name, but holding so much else. A name like a prayer. 

"Celebrian…"

*

_Seven leagues from the western border of Imladris, Third age, year 2610_

The golden-haired elf was sleeping in the old oak when he was awakened by the warning of the trees. He stood, still and frozen, trying to figure, thanks to his keen Elven senses, the nature of the nearing threat. For a long moment, he could discern nothing save the restless whispering of the trees and the quiet breath of Naralod. But when his ears finally picked up some alien noises, he frowned deeply. His ears bristled when they picked out the ugly words that were uttered between the newcomers. They were harsh and painful to the delicate Elven hearing used to the melodic voice of his kin. But the blond prince didn't take long to figure out who, or rather what, was coming. 

As an experienced warrior, he had witnessed, on numerous occasions, discussions between Sauron's minions and learned to keep still even when the pain inflicted on his mind by the foul language became unbearable. It had taken time for him to master his instinctive reaction. The young warriors who heard for the first time the harsh sounds usually had a lot of trouble preventing the cry of suffering coming to their lips. But, as such encounters were not uncommon in Mirkwood, all of them had learned to endure. Some had even come to a certain level of understanding. Like him.

Strong with many years of experience, Legolas did not even flinch when the orcs passed near the tree he was standing. He did not even move, his bow bent in his hand, his gaze following the dark figures crossing the woods. He noticed that Naralod was no longer close to him, the stallion's instincts ordering him to move away from the threatening creatures. He came down a little to aim at them, without being disturbed by the branches and leaves moving according to the wind, jumping to a less tall limb, trusting the strong tree to noiselessly bear his weight. Then, he steadied his poise and quieted his beating heart by breathing deeply. It seemed to him that he could still hear his teacher's voice reverberating in his mind, softly whispering in his ear while he guided his arm.

 "_Breathe, little Greenleaf. Your bow is not an extension of your arm. No. It is a part of you. Can you feel it? Breathe and always keep an eye on your target. Focus yourself on it. Breathe. Nothing exists but it. Breathe and let your arrow fly."_

The dark-haired elf, who had been his teacher, a skilled and patient warrior, had been killed in battle many years ago. At this memory, something like rage flared in his heart, but he calmed it down, focusing on his target. The orcs. Just as if it was an elfling's game, the young prince released three arrows in quick succession, effortlessly stretching the string of his bow, aiming at the orcs' hearts with deadly accuracy. 

Three orcs there were and three orcs fell with piercing screams of pain and rage. A smile illuminated the archer's fair features and, while he let himself slide to the ground, a feeling of contentment widened his grin. He despised all Sauron's creatures, but, most of all, he hated orcs because of their origin and of their doings. They were only insults to the Valar's holy work and scourges to Arda. Nothing more. He approached them to retrieve his arrows from the corpses lying down on the ground, disgusted by the nauseous odor and by the viscous aspect of their flesh. But he had had no time to recover his weapons as a sound reached his ear, freezing him. 

Screams. Shouting. Black Speech.

So lost in his attempt to kill the visible orcs, he had not thought that more were likely to come. These orcs were only scouts and it seemed that the whole company was now running in his direction.

TBC…

**

I just wanted to thank those who took the time to review this story.

Nina: I hope this will catch your interest

V: I think descriptions are an important part of a story. Sometimes I write too long descriptions and my beta says: 'no'. Glad you like it.

Gwilith: I am happy you finally stumbled on my story and that you like it. But there are so many authors on FF that it is normal that one doesn't see everything.

Simbelmyrne: I have a vision of the elves that did not really apply to the movies. The character that looked the most elvish was Galadriel in my opinion. Made of light and ethereal.   

Ivorybrowneyes: It seems we like the same characters. But it is normal, they are so lovely. 


	3. In the heart of battle

In your eyes part 3

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As usual, many many thanks to the wonderful Bev who beat-read that story. And also, thank you to those who took the time to review that story. Your words made my day. 

Well, I speak too much. Here is the story…

**

Screams. Shouting. Black Speech. 

So lost in his attempt to kill the visible orcs, he had not thought that more were likely to come. These orcs were only scouts and it seemed that the whole company was now running in his direction. 

Glancing over the top of his right shoulder, he decided that it would be better for his own health to leave this place. Ignoring the uncontrolled chill running the length of his spine, caused by the heart-breaking alarm cries from the trees, and calling out his horse to make sure he followed him, Legolas ran without looking behind him, elluding without difficulty the few clumsy arrows fired at him. He was faster than his pursuers and, in moments, after making sure that the foul beasts were far away, he slowed down and halted long enough to get his breath back, thanking the Valar for their mercy.  

Leaning against the rough bark of a tree, it took him a few moments to realize that something was wrong. It should have been more difficult to ditch them. At least, he should have still been able to hear them. But no sound reached his ears. 

Something was wrong. He could feel it in his very being, in the frightened whispers of the trees. As a wood elf, the fair prince was very sensitive to the messages from nature and had learned since his early childhood to trust them blindly. Contrary to others species who could reveal themselves as treacherous and false, trees never lied. 

From experience, he knew that orcs never abandoned an elf's track. They were too eager to take one of his kin alive, to torture him and to turn his bright light into hopeless darkness. If they had stopped their pursuit of him, it could only mean one thing: they had found someone else to play with. Another prey to torture and kill. A wave of fear for his horse overwhelmed the young elf, but was short-lived as he picked up the characteristic thud of the trot of a horse. Relieved, he gently stroked Naralod's nose when the white stallion joined him, anxious to leave this dangerous place. 

Absently, he kept on caressing the satiny-smooth skin. Naralod was safe and the only thing he had to do now was to jump on the back of his horse and quickly ride to Imladris to deliver his father's message to Lord Elrond. It was all he had to do. It was easy, wasn't it? But something hampered him to do so. Something in the wind, something in the rustling of the leaves, something in the back of his mind that told him that something was terribly wrong. 

It might be the intimate knowledge that something or someone had caught the orcs' eyes and that this something, or someone, was going to suffer. Whoever this one might be, he certainly did not deserve that treatment and Legolas' pride and honour prevented him from letting anyone fall into the orcs' evil clutches. At least without trying to help him. He knew well what his father would think of such a situation, he could almost hear him speaking: 

"Mirkwood is more important than any filthy human or dwarf. It is more important than any elf. You have to fulfil your duty to your people and you must not endanger yourself or your mission. You have to leave…" 

But he shook his head, as if to chase away the troubling voice. He knew what he had to do, but he could not do so. Simply. He could not. He had seen, helpless, too many of his fellows falling beneath the threat of darkness. He could not live with the idea of forsaking anyone to such a horrible fate.  

All of a sudden, a tremendous scream shattered the silence. The voice of a female mad with suffering and fear. There were a lot of things expressed in this scream: pain, anguish, prayer, surrendering,… More… There were both acceptance and denial. 

And the trees wept for that creature… 

Legolas heard well the whole scale of feelings displayed in this cry, feelings which made him want to hold his ears to stop the pain spreading in his heart. Pain which made him wish to run away. 

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the scream stopped. Legolas dared not move. If the yell had been terrible and overwhelming, crashing on him as a heavy wave of despair, the silence was worse. It was deafening. For several seconds, nothing moved, the whole of  nature seemed petrified, frozen in its tracks.  

The fair prince shook his head. He had known it. But now there was no more hesitation. Without thinking, without even contemplating the idea of letting the poor being manage by herself, Legolas broke into a run in the direction of the scream, his bow still in hand, ready to kill anyone threatening the life of the female. He could only hope that he was not too late. Yet, he didn't jump on Naralod's back, afraid to be heard sooner by the orcs if he came with his horse. 

He ran like a possessed soul, putting one foot in front of the other, fast as only the elves could be, jumping over the hurdles coming up to him. With agility and without slowing his race, he avoided the branches hanging from the trees, which could have lashed his eyes, the roots emerging from the ground, the stones and the mud. He ran, his mind fixed on his goal. With his long hair flying in the wind and catching the light, his long and graceful legs, his proud and determined gaze, his hand gripping the beautifully curved weapon, the youngest prince of Mirkwood was the perfect representation of death. 

Beautiful and bewitching, but nonetheless lethal. 

He did not take him long to reach the place where the scream had come from and when he surveyed the scene in front of his eyes, his heart missed a beat. There, trapped against a tree, stood a man encircled by dozens of orcs. The man was a tall and strong one, whose dark locks, wet with sweat, fell into his eyes, hampering his vision of his assailants, but which he did not dare to push aside, lest he might lose sight of one of the dark beasts. He was clutching his side and Legolas' keen sight enabled him to see blood dripping through his trembling fingers. 

But of the female there was no trace… 

Legolas quickly scanned the area. Behind the tree where the tall human was caged, a cart was upset upon the heavy corpse of a horse, which had been stricken by many black arrows. By the presence of the cart and by the man's manner of holding his trembling weapon, he could guess that this one was no warrior, but more probably a farmer that had been unlucky enough to choose this doomed path. 

The man was afraid. He could see the fear, almost feel it, in the narrowed eyes, in the dilated pupils and in the strangled breath. In the two seconds it took him to see the whole scene and to wrap his bow, he also noticed that, bit-by-bit, the strange circle was shrinking. The orcs were shouting screams of excitement and salivating in anticipation. They were wielding their weapons and the man could not suppress his frightened cry when a sword tore superficially at the flesh of his arm. The orcs did not intend to kill him immediately, but rather to play with him. The dark-haired human was well aware of their intentions and that was why he was so frightened. He knew he should expect no pity from the orcs. But at his scared cry echoed Legolas'. 

Before any of the orcs was able to realize what had happened, two of them fell dead, killed by the elf's deadly arrows. The circle was suddenly shattered while ugly, hateful screams resounded. But the blond archer kept on aiming arrows to Sauron's minions. 

Soon, he found himself the target of their attention. Forsaking their former prey, they ran toward the elf standing next to a tall oak. The man took advantage of the orcs' disorientation to escape from the trap and quickly ran away from them, passing between two of the startled, foul beasts. But the human possessed neither the elf's speed nor his agility. He did not make it: An orcish sword struck him before he had time to avoid the blow. He fell on the ground with a startled cry. The blond prince saw the whole scene and redoubled his efforts. He knew from experience that stomach wounds were the worse and that few had survived such grievous injuries.   

When the orcs were too near to enable him to make powerful and deadly shoots, he had to forsake his bow for his twin knives. The strength of an archer was the distance lying between him and his foes that gave his arrows their lethal speed. Archers were the heart of an Elven army. Thanks to their piercing sight that found no match among other races, they rarely missed their targets. But they had to be swift and fast enough to knock their enemies down, because, as soon as their foes were too close, their bow became useless and they became vulnerable. 

But this was no problem to the fair prince: like all the wood elves, he favoured his bow, but was nonetheless known for his ability to handle his knives. He had little love for heavier weapons that he found not fast enough. If his twin blades had the disadvantage in a direct face to face with someone handling a sword to bring him back more easily into a defensive stance, they were sure allies to his speed in short confrontations. 

In a swift movement, which didn't lack elegance in spite of the dreadful circumstances, he unsheathed the two long and elven-crafted blades to wield them against his attackers. For one brief moment, the two knives shone brightly, the noble weapons reflecting the dawning light of Anar. They were a present from his father for his first coming of age that had marked the beginning of his training as a warrior. They were made from the purest material, forged and designed by the most skillful blacksmith in Mirkwood and on their mithril-made handles were engraved the arms of his family. The arms of the house of Oropher. But these magnificent and pure blades did not remain unsoiled for long. As soon as Legolas unsheathed them, he plunged the sharpened knives in the nearest orc's heart. With quick and precise arcs of one of his blades, he blocked the blows aimed at his flesh, never losing an occasion to shed the black blood of the orcs. 

There were many grimacing and dark noisy figures surrounding him, some nearer than others and he could see, in their soulless eyes, the thirst for destruction, the need to kill. But he refused to be impressed. Without losing his Elven grace, he kept on sparring with all the skill he had acquired since that distant day when he had first hold a knife. His gestures were fast and efficient. He did not take the time to think about what he was doing. In battle, such behaviour was the origin of hesitations and faults that no one could allow. He was not preparing his blows, he was living them, letting his instinct relay his conscience. Years of training and numerous battles had taught him the detachment that was imperative if one wished not to lose such battles. 

But where one orc fell, two more came. The situation was becoming desperate. There were more and more orcs and he had no way to escape them. He had to fight them or die. He could not flee. Not because of the man that was probably already dead, but rather because he would not turn his back to his assailants. His pride forbade him doing so. Turning his back to them would mean death and, if the blond prince was to enter Mandos Hall, he would rather face his killer.             

Legolas winced when an orc's blade tore the tender flesh of his arm. He cursed himself mentally for his carelessness and swiftly sliced the throat of the one who had wounded him. The pain diffused itself slowly in his forearm, preventing him from moving it with the alacrity he was used to. That mistake was not going to make his situation better. The blond elf cursed himself once more for his own stupidity. Why should he be always trying to prove something? And what had he tried to prove? That he was stronger than a handful of orcs? Well… But, he was by no mean as strong as a whole company of them. Twenty orcs against a lone elf, the count was done quickly and made him feel very uncomfortable. In the end, he would lose this fight; there were too many of them and not enough of him. 

His arms were aching and his whole body was asking for rest. How long had he been fighting now? It could have been hours or minutes. He had lost all notion of time. He did not know and did not care. This was going to end. He knew it. He felt it. His blades were no longer shining in the dawn but covered with black blood, both dried and fresh. Absently, mechanically taking advantage of an opening in the nearest orc's defence, he sent his foe's sword flying in the air above them and ended his life with a swift action. 

Outside, he was still the perfect image of control, his hands never shaking, his gaze steady and clear, his face an unreadable mask of concentration. But, inside, his thoughts were in turmoil. He knew he should not be reacting like that. That kind of distraction too often led to death, but he could not help it. He had to bring this request. He had to achieve his duty. Mirkwood's destiny was lying down his shoulders. While he was battling here, how many of his fellows were dead? How many would fall until his return and the arrival of help? How many would die if he did not bring the message to the vale?    

Help came from where he did not expect it. A piercing neigh dominated the groans and cries of the beasts, piercing the mist of the elf's thoughts, bringing him back to full awareness. The elf heard the heavy sound of hooves and many screams and groans from the orcs. 

Naralod. 

Legolas did not realize at first what had happened. He kept on fighting as if nothing had changed, but, soon, he saw that a part of his assailants had changed their target and that he had a little more space to act. A new energy seized his body and his spirit. What was his horse doing here? If the blond archer was ready to face his death, he refused to let his loyal companion share his fate. But he also knew that the white stallion had the same thought and wanted to save him, even if the price to pay was his own life. Between two blows, the fair prince dared to level his gaze to look for his friend and hope, which he had almost lost, flared anew in his heart.  

The white purity of Naralod's coat was a pleasant contrast with the dark skins of the orcs, who could not approach him without being stricken by one of his sharpened hooves. The stallion was in a fury. Legolas had never seen his horse in such a rage and, if both their lives were not threatened, he would have laugh. Anger and perhaps hate were discernable in the huge bottomless eyes of the stallion. He was booting and kicking, hitting the orcs that tried to approach him. Seeing that his elf was not coming back, he had decided to seek him. When the white stallion had found out that the prince was in great danger, he had attacked, forsaken the supposed pacifism of his kin, honouring the oath sworn between the elves and their mounts. No one would come and harm his elf when he could prevent it. His muscular body was rising, according to his kicks, and his coat was wet with sweat. Rearing up then letting himself fall down, he crushed a lying orc's skull, his heavy hooves destroying easily the fragile bones. He repeated the same movements, kicking, booting, rearing up, and biting when he could, clearing himself a path to his elf, trying to protect him. 

Legolas fought, parrying and striking, his will directed on one goal: staying alive. He was not aware that the number of Sauron's creatures was diminishing and that, bit-by-bit, thanks to his skills and to Naralod's help, the silence was beginning to overwhelm the forest. Soon, no more blows came and he stood, his knives ready to plunge into the heart of a treacherous foe, his body tensed and ready to fight, to fend off the next blow. But none came and Legolas allowed himself to relax and to look around him. He was standing alone in a field of death, his loyal companion next to him. The breath of the stallion was quickened and the black blood of the orcs soiled his once pure coat. The fair prince looked into the eyes of his horse and wordlessly thanked him for his help. Stroking the soft skin, he looked for injuries and was relieved to find only a few scratches that would heal soon and leaving no scar on the tender flesh. 

Sheathing his twin knives after cleaning them on the grass, he felt a shudder running the length of his back. Black corpses were lying on the grass, soiling the ground. But his eyes stopped on a different form that reminded him why he had come to fight those beasts: the human. 

In two steps, he found himself near the fallen man. Inspecting the still body, Legolas felt helpless. The man was near death and he could do nothing to alleviate his pain, he was too far gone to be brought back. The human's breath was the only sound that could be heard, quickened and unsteadied, betraying the excruciating pain he was in. His dirty hands were clenched upon his stomach and were soaked in blood. The elf lay the man on his back to enable him to breathe more easily. All he had done was in vain. Soon, the man would be dead, another life taken by the dark creatures of Sauron. His brown eyes were glazed and unfocused in pain, but when the fair archer touched him, he seemed to come back to awareness and let a weak moan escape. Closing in eyes in pain, he uttered a few words that were so soft that no one except an elf could have possibly understood what he had said. 

"Erana… Run… Children… Take…" 

Then he coughed, the movement bringing him more pain. His eyes became dull and distant. Blood trickled at the corner of his mouth, leaving a baleful trail upon his chin. On a last breath, he passed out, letting darkness and oblivion overwhelm him. But Legolas paid no further attention to the dead body. The dead ones did not need him, but the living… Contrary to many wood elves that had no use of it, Legolas was well versed in the use of the Common Tongue. He had understood what the man had said to him:  the human had not been alone and, somewhere in that wild forest, were his wife and his children. An odd feeling spread in his chest. Around him, all was desolation, blood, death. Like a bad omen. Scanning the whole area, he found no trace of their presence. Helpless, he asked the trees, but no answer came, except songs of grief and sorrow of the tragedy that had happened. 

Legolas was up in a second. A feeling of foreboding came to him. He sought on the grounds traces or signs of their passage. The Secondborn were not as light as the elves and left behind them heavy prints. But all he found were orcs' footprints. The young archer refused to give up so easily. There would be other orcs, hiding in the forest, heading toward his beloved Mirkwood. He had to find those children and that woman. It was his duty to bring them to safety since he had refused to fly and tried to help the man. As their father and husband was not alive to help them, he would do that. 

Then, he saw them. Tracks. Made by the little feet of human children, and followed by large footprints left by Sauron's minions, heading away from the battle. His heart missed a beat in his chest. All he could do now was to hope that it was not too late. Cautiously and, as quickly as he could manage, he followed the footprints. They led him a few leagues away, to a cave where he guessed the woman and her children would have sought shelter and tried to hide from the orcs' sight. In spite of his horror of caverns, the elf entered the dark place, his bow ready to shoot an arrow. Odour of blood and death reached his narrowed nostrils and he knew, before even seeing, what he would find inside. 

But he did not have to go very far into the invasive darkness. He found them, lying on the ground of the cave. It was too late. He was too late. The orcs had found them and taken their innocent lives. Obviously, the woman had tried to protect her two children with her body. Legolas looked at the once angelic faces, frozen by death in an expression of fear and total incomprehension. He felt a wave of nausea threatening to overwhelm his senses and he contained it. 

A sunbeam entered the cave, briefly shining on the woman's blond hair and the fair Prince found himself in front of another corpse. The body of a beloved she-elf covered in blood, but whose hair had kept its shininess. The body of someone he had failed to protect. A body of someone he had loved so much. A single tear escaped the archer's guarded eyes and he blinked, chasing away the painful memory. He should be strong. Memories were painful, but if he failed now, the future would be worse. He had to reach Imladris before his kin knew the same bitter end as this family. But before leaving, he had to bury these innocents.                            

TBC 


	4. Home

Disclaimer and other babble, see part one. 

**

Coming back… 

This is the complete version of the chapter 4. Hope you will enjoy it. 

As usual, many thanks to Bev for beta-reading.

**

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_Imladris, Third age, year 2610_

"So, Lindir, gwador-nin, what has happened in Imladris since our departure?"

The blond-haired elf, to whom this question was addressed to, was riding his sorrel mare between two other riders, whose identical fair faces were both turned toward him. If he had not been accustomed to such a situation, he would have found it very amusing to see the same profile whether he turned his head right or left. But the leader of the Imladris' guards was used to that impression of perfect mirror images, as he had known the twins since their early childhood, being approximately of the same age. For a reason still unknown of him, they had chosen him and had dragged him into their world. As elflings, they had shared their pranks and mischief and, even if, in time passing, their bond had weakened, a strong friendship had remained between the twins and him. That was why the blond elf had been for once very happy for the relief guards' delay, without which he would have missed his friends' arrival. 

"Nothing more, mellon-nin." answered the blond rider to Elladan's question, turning his head to catch the left twin's gaze. He was among the few who could tell the twins apart. It was true that they were really identical, but each had his own expressions and character, which enabled those who knew them to distinguish them.  "Imladris is the true picture of serenity these days. One month ago, some orcs had wandered near the northern border but we ironed out that problem. Since then, we have not seen any of the screaming and frenzied creatures." He paused for but a mere second, as if contemplating a thought. "Except for Erestor, of course".

"Tell me, Gwador…" intervened Elrohir in the tone of confidence, his voice low but vibrating with suppressed laughter. "How fares my father's advisor? Is he still sane or has he gone totally mad this year?"

The dark-haired advisor was the favourite subject of amazement at this time of the year for the three elves. Tonight was indeed the summer ceremony, one of the most praised and most famous celebrations in the vale. Tonight all the elves, save the sentries of course, would dance, drink and celebrate the beginning of the fair and warm season. Elrond's seneschals were in charge of organizing of the feast. But, year after year, they had seen Erestor give more and more attention to his task, while Glorfindel had forsaken his own more and more. Now the whole organization of the event was lying entirely on the dark-haired advisor's shoulders and, with the approach of the fateful date, the usually calm and serene counsellor metamorphosed himself into a very edgy and authoritative elf that thought that, if the feast was not perfect, his reputation would be forever marred.

Lindir glanced toward the younger twin, trying hard not to surrender to the laughter coming to his lips at the memory of the raven-haired advisor.   

"The last time I saw him, he looked perfectly well, but one never knows"

He chuckled, his bearing still straight in his saddle. There was a pregnant silence, then he added: 

"Nonetheless, someone told me Erestor had been seen in the cellar in the middle of the night, wearing only his night robe and checking the reserve of wine. In the middle of the night, can you imagine?"

The three elves broke out in laughter at the vision of the dignified advisor in such a position. 

"Elladan?" asked Elrohir, wiping the tears gathered in his eyes with the back of his hand in a graceful gesture.

"Aie", came the laconic answer from his mirror image, trying to regain his breath. 

"Who do you think has told Lindir of Erestor's nocturnal activity?"

The blond elf shifted awkwardly on his saddle. He did not like at all the turn taken by the discussion. He felt himself trapped between two identically piercing and inquisitive gazes, that refused to let him go. He had seen such gleams in the twins' eyes when they looked at him and it had resulted in one whole week of harassment to know the name of his lover. Before he could indicate silence to both his raven-haired friends, he heard Elladan exclaiming, confident:

"I am sure it is his pretty friend from the kitchen staff. What was her name?" 

Lindir turned himself to catch the elder twin's malicious stare and articulated very slowly, as though speaking to a feeble child:

 "I have no pretty friend from the kitchen staff and you know it!"

At the very moment he finished his sentence, Elrohir's voice behind his back innocently acknowledged very loudly:

"He speaks the truth… She works in the library…"

From the new waves of laughter coming from the twins echoed the more discreet chuckles from the guards accompanying them and riding respectfully a few paces behind them. Raising his gaze to the blue and clear morning sky, and praying the Valar to bestow him with patience, Lindir sighed. In one or two days, he would get bored by the unceasing teasing from those two and would begin to tease them as mercilessly. But, for the moment, he did not feel the need to do so. It was so good to have them here, alive and joking, that he felt very happy. Deciding to ignore the last remark from the twins and his warriors' reaction, he came back to the initial subject of conversation, a ghost of smile upon his sweet features:

"It does not matter who told me that. Erestor becomes worse from year to year. For example, Lord Glorfindel has definitely given up and does not even try to pretend to do anything. He has joined the morning patrol for one month and is not often seen in the house."

Again, the air was filled with light laughter, which graced the sky with their musical notes entwining in a soft melody.

It was good to be home.           

*

The window was open, letting in a fresh and light breeze, which made the sheer curtain dance. The sunbeams were creating a soft play of light and shadow, designing hazy colours on the ground and the walls. Standing in front of the window was the Lord of Imladris, his black hair shining in the morning light, his well-disciplined braids not even ruffled by the light wind. The day was just beginning, the early dawn not yet erased from the eyes of those who liked watching the first blessing of Anar upon Arda. The valley was a beautiful image, waking up, becoming animated as one goes along with the rise of the solar star. Lord Elrond had seen the morning patrol leave the stables and the first servants running through the garden, attending to their duties. But today, his whole attention was not fixed upon the beauty of the vale. He was closely watching the little procession that had appeared for a few moments at the top of the hill. He did not need to look twice to know who was coming with the night sentries of the northern fence. 

His sons were home.

*

_Seven leagues from the western border of Imladris, Third age, year 2610_

Legolas was sitting near a little stream that ran through the forest, his senses sharpened. He had no wish to be surprised just as before the dawn. Such an event once a day was more than enough for him. His eyes fixed on his surroundings, he was rebraiding his hair, his nimble fingers making quick work of his hair thanks to the years of habit. He did not need any mirror nor to look at his reflection in the still water. His fingers were combing and separating the thin strands of golden silk, working by themselves. 

He had taken a quick bath in the natural pool in front of him, wishing to rid himself of the dried blood on his pale skin. He had also washed his clothes, knowing that even with all the best will of the world, he would never make them an acceptable appearance. His tunic was torn in many places and the bandage he had placed upon his wound was clearly visible. He had washed the cut with pure water and had been relieved to see that the blade that had struck him had not been poisonous. It would not be an ideal time to faint upon the forest ground while he was so near to reaching his destination. He had applied to his upper arm a large amount of healing herbs, which were supposed to quicken the natural healing process. 

But he would by no means look as was befitting a prince. He could almost hear the mocking comments that his ever so perfect brothers would have made without any reserve. Such an incident would not likely happen to them. They who were always so perfectly regal. Legolas contained grimace of irony. Damn them! They were not there and he had still to reach Imladris. Anar had just arisen from his long slumber. If Naralod was in good enough shape, he would be able to give the message to the Peredhel Lord in three or four hours. 

And take his leave for Mirkwood one hour later.  

He could have departed a long time ago, but he had lost a lot of time in finding a proper place to bury the corpses of the human family. He had had no time to build a pyre, so he had had to find another solution. He could have left them behind, but he could not permit himself to abandon their bodies to the preying carrion that haunted the forest. Finally, he had found a natural little crevice in the ground where he had put the corpses into. He had covered them with strong branches and he had added some dirt to discourage the beasts from digging. He had stayed there for a few moments, praying for the rest of their souls and singing ancient songs to accompany their last journey. As he had sung for the dead ones, no emotion had flickered upon the fair face or in the deep eyes. Grief was an emotion that he could not have allowed himself to feel. Regret and sorrow would be for other days. For other times. When Mirkwood would finally be safe. 

Whistling, he called Naralod. Imladris was not so far anymore.

TBC…         


	5. Imladris

Disclaimer and other babble, see part one…

*

Author's notes: 

Yes, another update… And so soon… This is because I won't be able to update before some time. I have an exam to prepare and a lot of stuff to work…

I want to thank those  who took the time to review that story here: Stephanie, Gwilith and, of course, Lady of Legolas… Thanks for your kind words.

Enough babbling, here is the story… And yes, I promise you that in that one, the fair Prince reaches Imladris…

*

Chapter 5 : Imladris

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_Imladris, Third age, year 2610_

"Ada!"

The exclamation was joyous and somehow a little bit childish. Elrond briefly closed his eyes and sent a silent thank you to the Lady for having kept his sons safe.

When he opened them, he gazed into two pairs of identical grey eyes, so much like his. His two sons were standing in front of him. With a studied grace, their hands laid upon theirs chests at the exact location of their hearts, the seriousness of their expressions belied by the sparks in their pupils, they bowed deeply in perfectly synchronized movements. Then, they waited for their father to welcome them in his house and to allow them some rest and, above all, the access to the baths before seeking further discussions.

The Lore master went forward and put a warm hand on the shoulder of each of his sons. The ritual was immutable and cherished. As soon as he had noted their arrival, he had gone down to wait for them on the doorstep facing the main gardens, his father's heart singing with joy, in harmony the birds nestling in the trees. But that had been only when he had seen them standing in front of him, alive and apparently healthy, when the last remaining trace of fear had left him.

A single sentence escaped his lips, but in those simple words could be felt all the love he had for them:

"Mae Govannen, my sons…"

And he hugged them both tightly to his heart.

But concern appeared in his eyes when he felt more than saw his younger son wince at his touch upon his shoulder. 

"What is there?" he asked, his voice filled with worry now that he knew that Elrohir had been wounded.

"He had…" began the older twin, but Elladan never had the opportunity to finish his sentence as his sibling cut off his explanation.

"Nothing!" stated Elrohir precipitously before tempering his voice and saying in a reassuring tone: "It is naught, Ada."

"Elrohir…" 

Elladan let a bit of the anger he was feeling darken his voice, reminding his twin of his promise to show their father his injury as soon as they were back home. He had taken care of the wound, but he was not as skilled as his sire in the matter of healing art. He had detected no trace of poison, but he would be only relieved when his father had confirmed his assessment.

"I am well, brother. It is almost healed" protested Elrohir in a casual tone, but glaring darkly at Elladan.

Something like a flash briefly lit the grey eyes of the elder twin who, very calmly and in a tone that would accept no argumant, said:

"That is no scratch and you know it. You will keep the promise you made, brother, or I swear I will bring you on my own to the healers…" He paused briefly to enhance his following words. "Whether you like it or not…"

But a stern voice prevented the younger twin from telling his brother to speak only for himself.

"Would you stop that for a minute, please!"

The two twins, who were facing each other, turned in unison to look at their very displeased father. As usual, in this kind of argument, they had forgotten about the whole word around them and were called back to reality by their father's dark stare. 

Elrond was relieved to see that his younger son was well enough to quarrel with his brother. His injury could not be so bad if he found the strength to argue with Elladan. But what angered him most was the refusal to take care of it. A wound was a common accident in battle and there was no shame in asking for help. If his children thought themselves to be adult enough to act as warriors, then they should behave accordingly. Seeing that he had again their full attention, he inquired:

"Are you wounded?"

This was not truly a question because he already knew the answer but he had to ask, wanting Elrohir to admit his injury.

"Aye" agreed Elrohir staring at his feet like an elfling surprised while getting into mischief.  He was no elfling anymore, but he could not help feeling like one when his father looked at him in this way.

"Where?"

It was not his father asking questions from this moment on, but the healer. The most skilled healer of Arda. He felt his grey eyes roaming over his whole frame, trying to determine the severity of his injury. But he did not have time to answer, Elladan took the words out of his mouth. Sighing, Elrohir thought that he should teach his twin to hold his tongue and not speak for him. 

"His shoulder"

Elrond suppressed a sigh and asked, knowing well what would follow:

"And how?"

"Orcs…"

He recoiled at the image that came in front of his eyes. Just a brief vision, but very vivid. His sons mortally wounded by the hands of those foul beasts, their blood soaking the ground where they were lying. Another image overlaid upon this one, the image of his wife when she had been brought back to him: her flesh torn, her eyes dull, the blood, so much blood … Briefly closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and was proud of himself when his voice didn't quaver as he asked:

"Was the blade poisoned?"

"I don't think so, but…"

He did not let his elder son finish the sentence. He had heard all he needed to hear and he knew what Elladan would say.

"But you prefer I have a look. Well… Go and take a bath, Elladan. You will join us later in the Last Homely house. But you, Elrohir…" He paused for a second, anchoring his gaze at his younger son. "You will come with me" 

*

_Border of Imladris, Third age, year 2610_

Legolas allowed himself to relax a bit when he reached the stream bordering what he thought to be one of the natural borders of the vale. Sighing and letting his gaze wander around him, seeking for path or a bridge where they could cross and avoid the water, but he found none.  He let a soothing hand massage the muscles of his weary back. They would have to go through the water in order to reach the other side. 

He heard the whispering of the trees and could not help smiling. Their voices and their language were so different from those of his beloved forest. Less wild. More civilized. More gentle. Different. He asked himself if the elves he was to meet were similar to those trees: polished and shy, cut from the true essence of nature. He knew he would soon discover the answer to his questions. He could feel that he was cautiously watched. That each of his movements was analysed to determine whether he was friend or foe. But, as he was an elf, he had not been challenged yet. Even though it would not be long before that would happen. Murmuring to his horse, he twined his fingers with the immaculate flax-like mane that flowed like a luxurious cascade over the strong curved neck of the stallion: 

"Go, my brave Naralod. We have no other choice but to cross".      

*

They were standing on the other side of the stream, waiting for him. They had been following him for a long time now. Since he had crossed the eastern fence. No need to say that they had been truly surprised to find a Mirkwood elf in Imladris. It had been quite a long time since they had seen one of them in this place. Many centuries. What was he doing here? And who was he? Friend or foe? No one could be sure, as the relationships between the two realms were not exactly what one would call on the best terms. 

Balalion glanced toward the younger elves that were assigned to the protection of the border. Many of them had never seen an elf from that realm and were eyeing curiously him without any attempt to hide it. He knew what they saw in him since he had not acted otherwise the first time he had laid his eyes upon one of those strange creatures that inhabited the hostile woods to the east of the mountains.

The elves from Mirkwood called themselves Wood-elves, even if the sylvan folk had mixed in with the Sindar at the time of the coming of Oropher to the Greenwood. And that one was evidently of pure Sindarin blood. But Sindar or Avari, the elves from Mirkwood had always seemed to them to be a strange people. They were wild and somewhat untamed. From there came their attractive beauty. With their savage manners and proud gazes. From their haughty ways to their looks at others. They seemed to belong to a different world, a world where none but they could access, a world made of magic and enchantment, a world ruled by nature, a world of freedom and liberty. 

Mirkwood was indeed a strange place. Full of shadows and forgotten by the light. It was said that the Shadow spread strongly through the roots of the trees, poisoning every living being, corrupting their souls and their wills. But these elves remained there, keeping close to the danger by their own will, refusing to leave those forsaken woods. So, who knew what they were capable of? 

If Mirkwood was a strange place, then the Wood-elves were a strange folk.  

A movement of the blond rider caught his attention. On his order, the tall white stallion began to cross the stream. The moment had come. The elf had gone far enough through Imladris without giving the reasons for his presence.

*

As Naralod set his last hoof upon the stony beach, Legolas fondly patted his neck, wordlessly thanking his horse for bringing him to the other side of the stream. Then, straighteninghimselfup_,_ he intently listened to the sounds of the place, mentally blocking out the roar of the flood to concentrate upon the noises in the forest. A crackling of a twig close to him told him that his instincts had not deceived him and that he would soon have some company. As he turned his fair gaze to his left, in the direction of the sound_,_ he found himself surrounded by the many guards seeming to appear from nowhere and aiming the dangerously sharpened arrows at him.

The blond prince slowly scanned the small gathering of armed warriors, ignoring the threatening way the weapons were wielded at him. All the eyes were fixed on him, narrowed in expectation, seeking to detect any menacing move. He did not move, his body tense, ready to react if those elves showed themselves aggressive. But he relaxed slightly as he felt that there was no true animosity in their stares. But neither were there amicable feelings. He was well aware that those elves did not wish to fight with him, did not wish to harm him. But he also knew that they would have no remorse doingso if it became necessary.

To assure them of his peaceful intentions, he gracefully dismounted, making sure not to brush his bow or his knives in a manner that might be misinterpreted. Soothingly stroking the velvety skin of Naralod's neck to quiet down his horse, angered to see himself threatened by elves, he stepped toward the guards and waited, never lowering his gaze, his chin held straight and proud, refusing to feel intimidated by their weapons.

He calmly watched as a tall blond elf took a step forward, the tip of his arrow shining in the light as a silent warning. He looked at Legolas with unreadable eyes and slowly lowered his bow. But the others did not follow him and kept their arrows aimed at the intruder. Having noticed that the others often glanced toward him and seemed to wait for an order from him, the fair archer had decided that this one must be their leader. But it was not his duty to give explanations without being asked and he waited for the other to speak, showing no signs of fear or eagerness.

"Where do you come from and what do you seek in Imladris?" asked the blond guard.

The tone was not harsh, rather firm and slightly authoritarian. It was evident that he would accept no refusal. But Legolas had no time to spare for arguing with the guards. He had nothing to hide and did not come with ill intentions. When he spoke, his voice held the same tone as the captain of the guards', seeming to dare him to doubt his words

 "I am here to deliver a message to Lord Elrond on behalf of King Thranduil of Mirkwood"

His words rang out clearlyin the silenceofthe morning and the guard cautiously listened to them, not missing the natural authority emanating from the elf. But he only acknowledged the reply by a nod and waited for the messenger to give him the message. For several seconds, neither of them moved, each staring at the other in a stern manner. Seeing that the wood-elf kept his silence and was not willing to waste his time on him, Galalion raised an eyebrow, thus enhancing the angular cut of his cheekbone. Breathing deeply, he asked, his harsh tone betraying his displeasure at how uncooperative this elf was being:

"Give us the letter; we will take it to our Lord."

The young prince looked at the guards, thinking that the one who had dared suggest this had gone completely mad. Did he truly think that he would give them such an important letter? But a slight frown was the only clue to his thoughts. Narrowing his eyes and refusing to move, he voiced his displeasure:

"This message is meant to be delivered to Lord Elrond by myself… This is an important matter that can suffer no delay."

It was Galalion's turn to frown, his gaze never leaving the elf in front of him, tall and elegant in spite of his evident weariness. This was an unusual request and, honestly, he did not know how to handle the situation. It was not in his power to either allow this rider to proceed further into Imladris or to send him back. He was on the verge of sending one of the sentries to the manor to obtain further instructions when an idea crossed his mind. Lord Glorfindel was part of the morning patrol that should not be far away from them. He would know what to do with this arrogant messenger.

*

"What's your name?"

The voice of the golden-haired rider, who had just arrived with one of the sentries and dismounted, resounding clearly, calm and musical, strongly contrasting with the unhidden harshness of Galalion's voice. As this new elf spoke, his deep blue eyes roamed over his whole frame and Legolas wondered if a flicker of recognition had not sparkedin thisindividual's eyes.

He watched him closely, taking in the noble face and the strong body of the warrior. This one was apparently an important elf of this realm, but he had no idea of who he might be. But, contrary to him, the newcomer seemed to have at least a clue of whom he was speaking with, which suggested that he was acquainted with the Mirkwood nobility.

Nonetheless, the fair archer was uncertain of how he would be received. No Mirkwood messenger had been sent to Imladris for centuries, if not more. And a long time, even for the elves, had passed since the last messenger from the vale sent to Mirkwood had seen himself forbidden to enter the forest. Legolas had not even been born when that event had transpired.

But, suddenly, he realized that, lost in his thoughts, he had not yet answered the question asked of him and that he was silently and rudely staring at the golden being. Fixing his gaze in the blue eyes of his questioner and with a proud, steady voice filled with the assurance born of years spent in court, he said without even stopping to take a breath:

"I am Legolas Thranduilion, son of the King of Mirkwood and, by blood, prince of my realm. I have been commissioned by my king to deliver a message to the lord of Imladris"

The lack of surprise in the blue eyes of his interviewer told him that he had been right, that his words had only confirmed the other's suspicions. But no words followed and silence fell between them; heavy and awkward. Legolas refused to yield to his desire to avert his gaze. As it looked likehe was about to have an intense discussion with himself about the decision he was to make, the blond warrior kept on staring at the prince without any shame. Gritting his teeth, the Prince returned the stare, never breaking eye contact, refusing to let the other see the concern that washed over his heart at the thought that this elf might forbid him from entering this realm.

But, fortunately, or this did not happen. The Noldorin warrior was the first to avert his gaze, looking above the young Prince's shoulder, seeking Galalion's eyes, whom he indicated to by a simple nod that they could lower their weapons and that he would take charge of the messenger from here.

Then, redirecting his attention toward the regal messenger, he spoke, his voice filled with the same calm as before, even if now could be heard the light undertone of deference given to royalty:

"Mae Govannen, son of Thranduil. I'm Lord Glorfindel, Seneschal of Imladris…" Without waiting for a reaction from the young Prince, he continued, uttering the words that Legolas had desperately waited to hear: "I will escort you to Lord Elrond"

Then, the tall golden-haired Seneschal turned upon his heels and walked toward the horse that was waiting for him.

TBC…


	6. Curiosity

Disclaimer and other babble, see part one 

Betaed by Bev…

*

I just wanted to thank those who took the times to review and comment I have no time to correct the flaws in the previous chapter, but it will be done

*

Legolas did not know where he wanted to look first. There were too many places he would have liked to admire. But he knew that they would nothalt to enable him to have a better view. Yet, even the brief images and sounds that caught his attention delighted him. He was stunned by the beauty of the place they travelled through. It might have been the mere fact that he had travelled for one week through hostile landscapes, but he found this place very beautiful. The way the light played through the foliage of the trees, sketching moving patterns on the ground, the way the animals were running into the trees, their little feet shaking disturbing the leaves, all participated in the delightfulfeelings he was experiencing while riding with the seneschal and two other guards. No animal was running amidst the trees of his forest anymore, save perhaps the spiders that nested in the higher branches.

The trees were still speaking to him, telling him the story of this place, how the first elves came here to build a shelter dedicated to all the races of Arda and how they tried to manage together. They spoke of legends and tales that few would have known and fewer still would remember, their voices and whispers soft to his delicate ear.

The younger son of Thranduil had to admit that the vale was truly bewitching, enchanting his senses and delighting his heart. But even the beauty of the vale could not relieve the tension in his body and the beating of his heart. He had to act as an ambassador and to convince Lord Elrond of the validity of his father's request_._ It was a difficult task and he was not sure he would be able to achieve it. Perhaps his father should have come by himself… But Mirkwood needed his presence. Mirkwood… So different from this vale. So dear to his heart.

To him, Imladris was beautiful and pure. So pure. The whispering of trees was full of that innocence that those of Mirkwood no longer possessed. All was so peacefulthat it almost didn't seem real. And the elves… They were so… different. So… But he couldn't find the word. Impassive perhaps. But that was not exactly what he meant.

He glanced at the blond rider next to him. Lord Glorfindel of Imladris. Also known as Glorfindel of Gondolin, the one who died defeating a Balrog. Such warriors were what Mirkwood missed the most_._ And that elf was truly handsome. After discreetly watching the way the blond hair was catching the morning light, he shifted awkwardly on the back of Naralod. He was truly weary, but he had notime to think about it. His will was focused upon a single thing: his meeting with the Peredhel Lord of Imladris.

*

Glorfindel had to admit that he had been more than surprised and perhaps also angered to learn that Thranduil had dared to send them a messenger. The only reason why he had not sent him back was because the lithe blond elf was the son of the King. If Thranduil had sent his son, it meant that this message should not be treated lightly. But this was none of his business, but Elrond's.

He slightly glanced at the fair being riding the white stallion. He was stunned to see how much this one looked like his father. He had immediately known who this elf was, even if he had never met him before. Something in his bearing reminded him helplessly of the King of Mirkwood. Something in his eyes no doubt. The likeness was not only physical. Those two huge cerulean eyes were full of… But full of what? Pride? Wildness? Determination? Perhaps all three at the same time. But it was an _expression that Glorfindel had often noticed in Thranduil's gaze.

Looking at the fair features, Glorfindel decided he could not tell exactly how old the younger prince of Mirkwood was. His face was young. But his expression belied such an assumption. Glorfindel had rarely seen a youth, whose eyes held such an expression. The expression of someone that had seen too much, lived through too much and that had closed off his heart. Something that one did not usually find in young elves, eager to live and discover. But sometimes, life took it upon itself to strip them of their innocence and faith in the future. Which seemed to be the case of the young Prince. Never had the seneschal seen such glint in the twins' eyes, even after their mother's departure and Glorfindel found himself very grateful to the Lady of the stars to have spared them the feelings that could give rise to such an expression. Gathering his memories, he tried to find out if this one was born when the last council between Imladris and Mirkwood occurred a millennium and half ago. He had seen a beautiful and very sweet she-elf speaking with Celebrian. She had called to her two grown sons who had assisted in silence with the troubled negotiations between their sire and Elrond. Two sons, not three. Which meant that this one was less than 1500 years old.

The same idea as before crossed his mind, insistent and disturbing. If Thranduil had sent his son to Imladris, forsaking his pride in spite of his bitter feelings for Elrond, the matter must be very serious indeed. For years, they had had no news from Mirkwood, relying on information from the human villages of the forest. They knew that darkness was growing in the former Greenwood, that with the death of the Queen, a part of the Sindar had left their realm, some sailing to Valinor, others seeking shelter in Lorien. But they had no idea of the true strength of the Shadow in that part of Arda. Looking at the young Prince, at his clenched jaw and tense shoulders, he felt a shudder running down the length of his spine. Perhaps the situation was worse than they had thought it to be. Straightening himself in his saddle, he looked in front of him. He would learn it from Elrond soon enough.

The rest of their journey passed quickly as the house was not so far away. Soon, they reached the stables and dismounted quickly. Giving his reins to a stable boy that had come to greet them and turning himself toward the blond prince that had jumped down and was waiting, still, he told him:

"Wait here for me, please. I will come back soon."

Then, he walked away, heading for the entry of the manor. But changing his mind, he came back and added, fixing his gaze in the other's:

"I hope you understand that you will not be allowed to appear in front of the lord of this realm fully armed"

Feeling the weight of that gaze on him, Legolas only nodded his agreement and watched how the lithe figure disappeared into the house. Then, giving a swift glance around him, he noticed that the two guards had remained there on the order of the seneschal. They were trying to look occupied but the young prince knew that they were indeed closely watching him. He shivered slightly. Their presenceincreased his discomfort, reminding him that he was not in a friendly area and that he might go back to Mirkwood with a refusal of any future collaboration.

How would he announce such a thing to his father, he had no idea… And truth betold, he refused to think of it now… 

His thoughts were disturbed by the arrival of the little stable boy that had taken care of the horses of the Noldo and that now approached the wood-elf to take charge of his mount. His voice was shy and his gaze slightly unsteady when he asked if he should take the white stallion inside. Frowning slightly because of the disturbance, Legolas lowered his gaze, studying the features of the little one, noticing the wild raven strands falling on his shoulders, the pretty face whose dark eyes did not dare to look at him, wondering what he had been told as he had not listened, waiting for the stable boy to repeat his words. The little dark-haired elf couldn't help a lovely pink shade from burninghis cheeks and lowered his gaze to look at his feet, feeling uncomfortable under the close scrutiny. Seeing that the little one was too impressed to speak, he asked, his voice gentle and caring:

"Do you have any paddocks here, pen-neth?"

The stable boy looked up abruptly to stare at the blond elf. A slight frown was adorning his pale brow and there was so much curiosity in his dark gaze that Legolas could not hide his smile. Apparently, the horses of Imladris were very different from their mounts. No wood-elf's horse would ever accept being enclosed, let alone, to wear a saddle. He felt himself required to explain and he clarified his wish with a gentle voice:

"My horse is a bit wild, pen-neth, compared to yours." He affectionately patted Naralod's neck, the white stallion having approached them, his nostrils nuzzling the blond elf's neck, as if sensing that he was being spokenof, and continued: "And I doubt he would agree to beinglead into a stable, most of all, by someone he doesn't know."

The little raven-haired elf gaped at the blond prince. He had never heard of horses behaving so. Seeing that the young one was so astonished that he had forgotten the question, Legolas kindly repeated: 

"Do you have some paddocks?" 

Hearing him, the stable boy realized that he had been staring at the wood-elf and his already hot and pink cheeks became crimson, the deep color spreading up to the tips of his pointed ears. Stammering, he invited the young prince to come  with him:

"Of course, my Lord. If you would follow me…" 

TBC…

I hope that chapter satisfied those who wanted more characters' interactions. It is short, I know, but life is overwhelming of late. See you later…


	7. The Lord of the vale

Yes, another update… I spent my weekend writing instead of working… I am hopeless… What would my teachers say if they knew what I am doing? Better not knowing… But I tried to work,  swear, I tried and was attacked by a wild plotbunny…

Well, stop babbling and on with the story… 

As usual, thanks to those who took the time to review. You make this worthy of the time I spend writing…

Thanks to the great Bev for beta-reading…

**

Lord Elrond was sitting at his desk, frowning deeply and shaking his head at times. If one could have seen him at that very moment, they would not be able to refrain themselves from smiling. Because he was looking much more like an elfling learning a long and boring history lesson, rather than the powerful Elven lord fulfilling his duty.

He was sitting in his private study, a large, bright room, decorated with taste but without any signs of ostentation. The walls were of a pure white and there were no paintings hanging on them. But two of them were covered by bookcases, which were threatening to crumble under the weightof the numerous books and manuscripts piledon the bookshelves. There were few pieces of furniture in the room. In a corner, a vast and comfortable armchair was covered by a deep red velvet fabric and in the center of the study stood a desk, which was a magnificent work of craftmanship. It was made from dark oak-wood, the sombre shade making a pleasant contrast with the brightness of the room. This was a unique piece with a history, which gave it_,_ in Elrond's heart, much more value than the simple price of a beautiful and well-build piece of furniture.

Many centuries ago, a storm had raged upon the vale. For three long days and three long nights, southern winds had blown, bringing with them heavy and menacing dark clouds, which had hidden Anar and deprived Imladris of the light, vital to the elves. For three long days and three long nights, the inhabitants of the vale had shut themselves in, none of them daring to go and face the anger of the elements. Even among the oldest, none could recall when last it had rained so much and so long.  The rain had seemed an opaque and impassable curtain upon the usual beauty of Imladris. No sounds could be heard, except the violent knock of the rain upon the windows, the agitated rustlings of the leaves in trees, the violent voice of winds screaming intheir insanity, the muffled growl of the thunder and the tremendous explosions of the lightning dying in burst of light.

Many were those who said that it had been as if the fury of the Valar had been crashing down upon the valley. Those three days and three nights had been the longest any of them had lived through. Anguish and despair had come over many souls. Tears had been shed and words of comfort exchanged. Then, as suddenly as it had come, the storm had stopped, leaving behind it a desolated landscape. The ground had been inundated and strewn with branches and leaves; many rivulets were running on the soil, forming as many little streams or muddy ponds. Shutters and tiles had been torn off from the houses. In some places, walls had collapsed. Gardens had been destroyed, not a single flower remained. The whole vale had been devastated, looking more like a picture of death and battlefields. But luckily, no one had been injured and even if it had taken years to restore its former beauty to Imladris, the Lore Master had never complained. However, Elrond's heart had ached when he had found out that one of the ancient trees in his garden had been uprooted by the strength of the gusts of wind_._

When he had seen the once proud and tall oak lying on the ground, its leaves soiled with mud, its branches broken, the Lore Master's heart had cried in denial. This had been worse than all he had seen when he had inspected the destruction. This tree had been in the valley before the elves came. It had seemed to Elrond that this oak had been eternal and that he could always rest under the shelter offered by its foliage. But he had been wrong and seeing the strong being having beencast down_,_ had reminded him that even what seemed eternal was not always so. He had asked one of the better carpenters to use the fallen tree to make some pieces of furniture or to replace the broken flaps. Without telling him, his wife had inquired of the craftsman to make her husband a large and beautiful desk to replace his old one, which could no longer withstand the weight of all his papers anymore.

The carpenter had donevery good work. Contrary to other desks, this one had not been made of heavy and thick wood board carefully pieced together, but had been directly carved in the trunk. The result was magnificent. The piece of furniture was noble and Elrond had loved it from the very moment he saw it. It was all in curves and straight lines, sculpted and nosed feet supporting the straight tabletop. Three drawers were inset in the front, all of them covered with an intricate design that the Lord of Imladris had recognized as being from his wife's imagination.

As was usual in the morning, he was sitting in front of this marvellous gift that reminded him of his wife and her laughter at his surprise upon discovering that his old desk had been replaced. He cherished the piece of furniture as deeply as he did her image. Their time together had been too short and there was, to his liking, too few memories to recall. This place was full of these past precious moments and he found himself craving the solace provided by this sweet cocoon. He had for a long time forsaken the other places where too many counsellors, scholars and undesirable intruders were eager to lavish their advice. He needed the silence, preferring to work in peace.

He was studying the annual report about the protection of the frontiers. Every year, he sent Glorfindel or Erestor, two of his most trusted friends and counsellors, to study the situation at the borders very carefully. Every year, some patrols were added to one of the frontiers, others were changed; new recruits were hired. He had also to choose those among the volunteers who would be sent in the annual hunting trip destined to clean out the destruction from the presence of Sauron's minions.

A knock at the large wooden door interrupted his reverie. He quickly glanced at the position of Anar in the sky, believing that, once more, absorbed in his work, he had missed lunchtime. But Anar was not at his top and two hours had to pass yet before a servant would bring him a tray of food. So, who could it be? The entire household knew that he did not wish to be disturbed when he studied these long and boring reports. And this report was particularly long and boring. He had made it very clear that he did not wish to be disturbed at all and he was very annoyed to hear somebody knocking at the door. He closed his eyes, trying to figure what could motivate such an intrusion. Lost in his thoughts, he forgot to answer to the unwanted visitor. But another knock brought him out of his daydreaming state. This time, the intruder voiced his question:

"Elrond, are you in there?"

The Lord of Imladris mumbled a reply. The voice belonged to his old friend and mentor, Glorfindel, who knew perfectly well that he was in his study. How could he be elsewhere when so much work was waiting for him? Elrond decided that something must have been troubling the seneschal of Imladris because it was not his friend's habit to knock twice when he did not answer the first time. And, generally, he did not knock at all.

"Ai. I am here…"

The door was swiftly opened and a tall blond elf entered the study. Elrond carefully eyed the figure. The Balrog-slayer was wearing his riding clothes, but there was nothing unusual in this: Glorfindel wore formal robes only when necessary. Even after long millennia spent at the court of Gondolin and in Imladris, the blond elf still did not wish to wear the formal clothes. He preferred the traditional hunting clothes, leggings and tunic to them_, _this reminded the Lore Master that his friend was first a warrior before being his seneschal. The dust and filth on the black leggings indicated to him that the tall elf just came back from riding with one of the morning patrols. His white tunic contrasted with the dark colour of the leggings. The tight clothes suited him well and enhanced the broad shoulders and the muscular thighs, a dark leather belt emphasized his slender waist. His blond hair, worn simply in two modest braids, was shining with the light of Anar. Clothed like that, Glorfindel was truly awesome.

But something was different in his seneschal's appearance. Something was troubling the usually serene features. There was a glint in the blond elf's gaze, that was not normally thereand that Elrond had not seen for a long time. What was it? Amusement? Surprise? No, it was not. But he could not guess what troubled his friend. He turned his chair to face his visitor. He noted the nervous tic tensing up the well-drawn jaw. Something must be wrong. Locking his gaze with the blonde elf_,_ he took a deep breath and waited for Glorfindel to tell him what had happened, praying that whatever it was, it had nothing to do with one of his sons.

"A messenger has just arrived"

Elrond breathed again. He had just let go of a chuckle. Was his friend going mad? A messenger. A mere messenger. He was waiting for an announcement of calamitous proportionsand Glorfindel announced him the coming of a mere messenger. He was relieved. But it did not last long. Meeting again his friend's gaze, he saw that the nervousness had not leftthe blue eyes. He frowned and waited for whatever was coming. But he was completely unprepared for what came next. When he heard the rest, he felt his eyes narrow in surprise. He had to admit that he had not been so shocked for centuries, for millennia even. Maybe because he had not heard those words being uttered for a millennia or two. At this moment, he understood Glorfindel's astonishment as he looked at his friend.

"It's a messenger from Mirkwood"

*

"What do you think ?" 

The question left the young prince more speechless than he let it appear. He was standing in front of Lord Elrond, as he had refused to sit down.

"I beg yourpardon, my Lord?"

As he was sitting at his desk, the tall half-elf raised his gaze to capture the son of Thranduil's blue stare. Usually, the bearer of a message was dismissed after having delivered the precious letter. But this one was no mere messenger. The beautiful elf that was standing so straight and so tall, somewhat tense in a way, in front of him was no less than the son of one whom he had thought to be his friend many millennia ago. He could not help to notice the striking resemblance between the blond messenger and his sire and the ebony-haired lord felt himself sent back many years ago, to an era when he was younger and more carefree. He raised his left eyebrow when he heard the polite request. Looking into those eyes that held so much, he knew immediately that the question was a rhetorical one, asked to give him time to gather his thoughts. Such aploy was not common for someone so young. Youths were usually brash and most of the time unthinking. Like his sons. Suppressing a smile at the situation, he repeated, enunciating every word:

"What do you think of your father's request?"

For a brief moment, both elves stared wordlessly at each other and Elrond felt himself fall under the spell of those piercing blue eyes. As many of the elves that had lived for so long, he craved the beauty of Arda. All the beauty_._ After seeing so many people die, so many friends fall and after forgetting so many memories, the balm that the vision of beauty left upon his wounded heart was soothing and restful. But the blond archer was unaware of the admiration barely hidden in those grey eyes. He was too busy trying to discover in those same eyes the kind of answer that was expected. Trying to look neither too impolite nor too arrogant, he cautiously stated_:_

"I'm not sure that what I think is important, my Lord…"

With a vague gesture of his right hand, Elrond dismissed the too diplomatic answer. He wanted answers that were answers, not ones that hinted at subterfuge.

"Well…Tell me then what you know of the situation of your realm. Surely you know about your father's request, don't you?"

The younger elf bit his bottom lips. His nervousness increased, making him afraid to commit a mistake that would influencethe dark-haired Lord's decision and making him even more hesitant to reply. However, it was not in his character to be so nervous. He was even known in his realm for his unshakable composure and this new feeling made him very angry with himself. Made him feel as if he was failing Mirkwood when it needed him the most. Trying to disguise his discomfort, he walked to the windows and breathed deeply before answering:

"I don't know what more there is to say, my Lord. My father will have explained this to you in his letter."

The Lore Master shook his head slightly, his smooth brow marred with a deep wrinkle as he frowned. A new dodge_._ His voice hardened a little when he spoke:

"Yes, son of Thranduil. But I have known your father for far longer than you have and I am very much aware that he does not say everything in his letter. I also know that he wants help, but Mirkwood had managed on its own for millennia. Why does your realm need help now? Why make contact now while no words have been exchanged for so long?"

He paused for a second, his stare fixed on the prince's broad shoulders, noticing the well-built frame of the archer.

Legolas tensed, wanting to speak of the desperate situation his realm was in, but not knowing how to do so. How could he speak of it, when he had learned to behave as if everything was normal, ignoring the growing danger to keep up a pretense of normal life? How could he speak of the anguish of his people when each of them tried to forget that every day might be their last? How could he speak of the death and of the fear, of the fights or battles and of the pain? How could he speak of things everyone refused to voice lest it might seem to them too harsh a reality? How could he speak of feelings everyone refused to acknowledge?

Elrond saw the tension creeping in the blond elf's posture. He smiled bitterly in his mind. It was no easy task that Thranduil had bestowed upon his youngest and, in a way, he couldn't help enjoying the situation. It was a little revenge for so many years of fights and insults. It was also a little victory upon his former friend. It was not very glorious, but it felt good to have the blond king requesting or begging him to help his realm. Then he spoke again, more gently this time, almost encouraging:

"I know that darkness is rising in Mirkwood, young prince. If you refuse to speak, I may believe that this is yet another trick of your father's…"

He watched, still, as the young prince turned very slowly to meet his gaze. And then, Elrond did not find the situation enjoyable anymore. As straight as one could, his eyes icy and nonetheless burning, his voice holding no emotion, as disconnected, his nostrils imperceptibly flared and his jaw clenched slightly, the young prince did as he had been bid, taking his time to speak:

"We need help. We cannot hold out much longer if no one comes to our aid. Darkness is rising; immortal elves are dying, some from battle wounds, others from grief. Soon, goblins will be bred with Elven blood. We could flee, but we won't. Mirkwood is our realm. It is our land. We cannot leave it behind us. Many have already sailed for the Undying Lands, but those who remain will give their lives to protect the realm. The last of us will fight before dying…" The blond Prince laughed bitterly, before adding: "You wanted to know what I thought of the situation. I think it would be better if such sacrifices were not necessary…"

When he finished his sentence, nothing moved at all in the little study. The half-elf was sitting there, his gaze fixed upon the fair and proud creature that was looking at him with an air of challenge in his eyes. He was frozen in his chair, his thoughts of revenge forgotten. He had never heard one speaking of his own sacrifice with so much detachment, with so few emotions. But, most of all, he was stunned by the wild beauty of the speaker. This one was so much like his father and, yet_,_ so different. Thranduil was a passionate elf but he had never seen so much detachment from events in his former friend.

The voice of the prince was still ringing in his ears: the detached and emotionless tone, the emphasis, the sacrifice. He was more than serious when he spoke of his own death with so little worry or concern. This was by no means the inflamed declaration of a youth dreaming of glory and battle. This was a statement. An acceptance uttered without any regret nor shame.

And in his heart, Elrond knew he would not be able to let this one drown, as he would not be able to forsake the Woodland realm to the cruel hands of Sauron's minions. He would have to discuss it, of course. With Thranduil. With Galadriel and Celeborn. This was not a decision one could make lightly. Nor he could send his warriors immediately to Mirkwood. Most of them were just returning after a month orlonger of hunting and others had just departed. He could not leave Imladris without any protection, even for the sake of Mirkwood.

Sighing, he adverted his gaze. Misinterpreting the ebony-haired lord's silence, Legolas stated, his voice holding a slight bitterness that he had not been ableto disguise:

"I need an answer, my Lord. Aye or Nai. An answer is all I ask for. It's not so difficult."

At the sudden harshness in the formerlysmooth tone, Elrond looked at the blond messenger and became aware of the younger elf's disappointment. He probed the depths of the cerulean orbs staring at him, but saw nothing resembling an emotion. If he had not heard the change in the prince's voice, he might have believed that he had not been affected at all. But as suddenly as the impassionate mask had slipped, it was put back on the fair but indifferent features.

"And yet, young prince, it's not so simple" answered the Lore Master of Imladris.

If his long life had taught him anything_,_ it was that nothing was ever simple. A choice led often toward two opposite directions and choosing to go right or left could upset so many lives, bring so much joy but also so much hardship. Taking such decisions lightly was not something one could afford.

But the son of Thranduil did not seem to be aware of the responsibilities involved in such choices. Bolder, he said with an undeniable hint of challenge:

"You may haveunlimited amounts oftime_, _but Ido not… My people do not."

Elrond could not suppress his smile this time. Finally, all Thranduil's children had inherited his temper and his impatience. This one was no exception and, even if he was extremely skilled at hiding it, the fire was burning under or beneath the ice.

"Time is a rhetorical matter, young prince." His amusement was noticeable and he quickly amended his tone so as not to offend his fair visitor. "Mirkwood has withstood the blows of theShadow for a long time and a few more days won't change anything…"

The blond prince lowered his gaze, looking somewhat defeated and Elrond felt the loss of this troubled gaze upon him. Thranduil's son slightly raised his head when he spoke again, but did not meet his gaze:

"Meanwhile, I shall bring an answer to my King. What should I tell him? That you need time to think about his request?"

Again, his voice was neutral, musical but emotionless. The ice had covered the fire, smothering his attempts to escape its glacial cage. Elrond did not waste any time pondering the answer he was to give. His mind was already made up_._

"You will tell the King, your father, that I agree with his request of a meeting"

While speaking, he carefully watched the fair features. But to his own disappointment, no emotion flickered upon his face. And when the blond elf met his gaze, as if to seek assurance that the lord of Imladris was serious indeed. A flickering light passed in the huge pupils, but it was so quick and short-lived that Elrond was not sure he had really seen it.

"So, if you would agree, my Lord, I will take my leave to go back to Mirkwood."

But Elrond shook his head in denial. He had other plans for the Prince of Mirkwood tonight. He got up, his long and heavy robes rustling with his movements, and he approached the blond elf, remaining but a few feet from him, feeling that any kind of contact would not be welcomed:

"You are no doubt aware that tonight, the most important celebration of the vale takes place. I would be very pleased and most honoured to have the Prince of Mirkwood under my roof for such an event."

Legolas opened his mouth to protest, but immediately closed it. He could by no means refuse such an invitation without being discourteous. Oblivious of the fair elf's reaction, Elrond kept on:

"It would give me time to compose an appropriate reply to your king. As well as give you time to rest and recover…"

The blond Prince stared at the raven-haired Lord, looking somewhat puzzled, his bottomless jewel-like orbs seeking in the noble features the meaning of his words:

"Yes, recover" repeated Elrond, pointing with his chin at the bandage covering the Prince's upper-arm, whose white fabric was slightly stained with blood.

Following the Lord of Imladris' stare, Legolas looked at the stained bandage and, unconsciously, pulled at his sleeve to cover it:

"This is naught, my Lord. It is merely a gash. In all honesty, I had completely forgotten about it"

It was the truth. He had been really surprised when he had seen the little red shade staining the bandage.

A smile graced Elrond's lips as this scene reminded him of the one that had been occurred in front of the door of the house a little bit earlier. In spite of himself, his mind drifted to his younger son, who would be sulking in the empty healing wing, but he soon returned his attention to the fair Prince in front of him and said to the younger elf with a fatherly tone that told that he would brook no argument:

"I would rather see you tended properly by a healer. Then you will be led to your rooms to have a bath and rest before the feast. But, of course, if you wish to leave now, I would understand …"

Legolas recognizedan order when he heard one, even when that order was softly and cautiously given. He was well aware that he could by no meansrefuse without offending the lord of the valley.

"Your wishes would be my pleasure, my Lord"

A ghost of a smile for one mere second, lit up Elrond's features, as an image of Thranduil came helplessly to his mind. So much like his father. So respectful of the protocol. So very much like his father


	8. The Balrog slayer

Sorry for the lack of update, but I have some troubles to get this story betaed. So all the thanks go to my wonderful friend Haz who took the time to do this. All remaining mistakes are mine.

Hope you will enjoy the story

**

On Elrond's biding, Glorfindel was leading the young Prince to the wing of the manor where the healing house was situated.  Neither of them had uttered a single word since they had left the lord of Imladris' study and a comfortable silence had settled between them, just disturbed by the light sounds of their steps resounding between the high walls of the corridors. Legolas stole a glance at the great Lord. He had, of course, heard many stories about that elf, his life, his lethal fight with a Balrog and how he had come back from Mandos Halls. But he had never thought he would meet him one day. He had to admit that the Balrog-slayer was far different from whatever he might have imagined.

He had expected a stern and disciplined elf-Lord, whose great charisma would have frozen those who dared look at him. And charisma he did possessed. , but not the one deriving from coldness and indifference. The elf walking next to him was full of life and joy. And that was precisely what surprised the young Prince and troubled him. 

He would have liked to break the silence between them, to speak with that elf who had not hesitated to sacrifice himself to save his people, to understand how he had handled the pressure resulting from such peril. To know, to answer those questions plaguing his mind, haunting him. Asking to be given an answer. But he did not dare to do so. He had to behave as the ambassador of his realm, not like an elfling that had seen naught of the world. Thus, he kept quiet.

"How did you get injured?"

Glorfindel's voice, which had oddly resounded in the empty corridors pulled the young Prince out of his thoughts. Slightly startled by the unexpected words, Legolas looked at the Balrog-slayer, mechanically seeking his gaze. But he did not find it, as the golden Lord was looking right in front of him. He observed for some seconds the beautiful profile, noticing the elegant arc of the nose, the noble brow and the high cheekbones.

"Orcs", he answered, matter of factly, as if it was a trifling detail. And indeed, it was .

Glorfindel was struck up by the change of tone in the other's voice. He quickly glanced toward the younger elf, who had averted his gaze. He could feel the unspoken questions lingering in those bottomless blue eyes, the well hidden inward contradictions, but not enough for him not to notice them. During the whole meeting between the young Prince and Elrond, he had waited in the little antechamber, now and then hearing bits of the conversation between the two elves. And the few words he had picked up had confirmed what he had seen in the Mirkwood's elf.

Growing through in such times was not an easy thing and every action of the young elf betrayed the fact that his innocence had been violated, stripped off him too early. Life was more difficult in Mirkwood than in any other Elven realm. Elven youths came of age physically between their fortieth and fiftieth year, but it took them many years more to reach the maturity of an adult. But, confronted to the overwhelming presence of the Shadow, Mirkwood's youngsters had to forsake their childhood and their adolescence sooner than other youths so as to take their responsibilities. But such things did not go the easy way and left lasting traces. And Glorfindel could see those marks in the fair being walking next to him, like deep scars marring his heart.

He felt his own heart tighten in his chest and he inwardly cursed the Shadow for its evil doings. Swallowing with difficulty, he replied in the same tone as the young Prince had used. 

"We are living through difficult times"

His words seemed the commonest of words, of the kind spoken to say naught. And indeed they were. But in those words he put all the knowledge of the world he had and all the hope he had for it. The words were without any importance, for what mattered was their unspoken meaning. Their silent comfort.

Legolas understood what the blond Balrog-slayer meant and he resisted the urge to close his eyes to dam the wave of memories awakened by the rush of sensations that seemed to run the length of his spine. But something inside of him refused to acknowledge those words's hidden meaning. Refused to accept that this elf thought he could understand him. And yet, it did not surprise him that the great Lord could. Had he not seen things no one had witnessed? The Balrog-slayer had met evil no one would ever imagine, but he had still hope. And, in honesty, it was that arrogant faith that made him grit his teeth forcefully.__

He had ceased to believe a long time agothat Eärendil was still shining on the Woodland realm. He was not sure that he could still have faith in the future. For a while, when he was younger, much younger indeed, he had tried to believe that the future would bring some kind of amelioration. Each night, he had prayed the Valar to protect his realm and to stop the darkness from spreadin_g_. But no one had answered his prayers. Naught had happened and the situation had gone worse and worse. Worse and worse. Till it became desperate.

No, hope had only brought him deep disappointments. So, he had learnt to live from day to day, taking what was given to him and giving what was taken from him.

Shaking his golden head to chase those thoughts away, he failed to notice that the blond seneschal had halted next to a heavy wooden door and he almost ran into him. Raising his head to understand what Glorfindel was doing, he found his gaze locked with the other's cerulean eyes. He waited for what was to come, but the Balrog-slayer did not move, his gaze anchored in Legolas', seeming to search for something in the depths of those blue orbs. But he did not seem to find what he had expected, as he slightly averted his gaze, watching now the fair features of that face stretched toward him.

Unaware of the denial his previous words had awakened in the young Prince, he gently said:

"Do not worry, Legolas Thranduilion. Lord Elrond will help your people"

Legolas almost stepped back. Those understanding and knowing words were more than he could bear and he mentally winced at his evident lack of control when he asked, a little bit more harshly than he had meant to:

"What do you think you know of my fears, my Lord?"

But those blue eyes did not blink. Glorfindel did not seem surprised by the disproportionate reaction andhis gaze did not leave his face. Softly breathing before he spoke, Glorfindel answered:

"More than you think. Do not forget, young Prince, that I have witnessed the fall of my city and the death of many of my friends…"

Silence was not broken, as they wordlessly stared at each other. Suddenly, the young Prince averted his gaze, taking a large gulp of air, willing to regain his composure, unaware that, for the first time since they had met, he appeared as young as he really was.  Soon, he composed himself again and met the Balrog-slayer's patient gaze. Glorfindel understood that he had guessed true and that the Prince was actually hiding many doubts and pain behind his strong facade. But the blond councillor was taken aback by the unexpected question that followed. He had expected many things, but not that question, asked in such a wry tone:

"How can you manage to live with those memories?"

The words kept echoing in the bare corridor, but, before he could manage to collect himself enough to answer, sounds of hurried steps reached his ears, taking away his attention as it seemed obvious that the newcomer headed was heading toward them. A few seconds later, an anxious voice called for him and the golden elf cursed silently.

Erestor.

"Glorfindel. I was looking for you. Do you know where…"

But the councillor did not let his friend finish the sentence. Stepping aside a little bit, he glared at the raven-haired advisor and then, formally introduced him to the young Prince.

"Seneschal Erestor, let me introduce you to Legolas Thranduilion, the youngest Prince of Mirkwood"

Wickedly smiling at the surprise clearly written upon Erestor's graceful features, Glorfindel took a sweet revenge for the unfortunate intrusion.****

"Prince Legolas will attend the celebration, tonight…", he mischievously added, perfectly aware of the effects such information would have upon his already tense friend.****

The blond seneschal looked at the round shape formed by Erestor's thin lips, as he let go a silent and surprised 'oh'. Then, remembering who he was staring at in such an improper manner, he deeply bowed and greeted the Prince in a musical and respectful voice:

"My Lord. I hope you will have a pleasant stay in the Vale…"

Feeling somewhat puzzled by the tension he could feel in the other seneschal, the blond Prince acknowledged the greetings. His eyes did not leave the dark-haired elf as Erestor turned over his old friend and whispered in a tone admitting no reply:

"I need to see you as soon as possible…"

Then, he turned upon his heels, his robes rustling noisily, walking fast until he eventually disappeared in a dark corner. Glorfindel turned towards the golden Prince again, meeting his interrogative glance. But, as he opened his mouth in an attempt to give an explanation, a crash of broken dishes resounded through the walls, making both elves jump, and cries of angered voices reached them. Glorfindel sighed heavily, recognizing one of the two voices. Slightly bowing before the Prince, he explained in an apologizing voice:

_"_I am afraid I must leave you here, my Prince. Behind that door is the healing house. You may enter; a healer is waiting for you. I have to check if no one is wounded…"

Then, he turned upon his heels and ran in the direction of the voices, hoping that Erestor was not frightening a poor and innocent maiden, whose only crime was to find herself in the wrong place at the wrong moment, leaving behind him a somewhat bemused Legolas.

TBC…


	9. In your eyes

Part 9: In your eyes

Thanks to the great Dorothy for beta-reading that part. I bow to her kindness and dedication. 

AN: Dear readers, I made you wait for more than 50 pages for that , I hope it will not disappoint you…   

_*_

_"The eyes are the windows to the soul" _

Karsh of Ottawa

*

The healing wing was a large and very long place, blessed with the bright light of Anar that crept the length of the walls, warming the room and giving it a pleasant sense of serene peace. There was no decoration, which enhanced the practical side of the place. There were only useful pieces of furniture. Lined against the long white-painted walls were dozens of beds, with only enough space between them to lodge a little night table. 

This room was the common infirmary where the slightly wounded and those recovering were housed to enable them to gather strength from each other's presence. In that way, they were distracted from the inevitable dark thoughts plaguing the weakened mind. Of course, the more seriously wounded or ill were placed apart, in smaller and more intimate rooms, where they could rest in silence and let their souls conciliate with the new situation their bodies were in until they were judged strong enough by the healers to join the cheerful ambiance of the common room. 

But, today, there was no gleeful company to joke with. The beds were empty, save one, their shining white sheets carefully tucked, their friendly mellow pillows seeming to wait for heads to rest upon them. All those who had been there had been sent back home for the night after having sworn not to exhaust themselves and to come back on the morrow. The room was quiet, the silence occasionally disturbed by rustling robes of a healer crossing the place with light footsteps. 

On one of the numerous beds in the room lay Elrohir, his back comfortably resting on the feather mattress as he stared at the ceiling, his uninjured arm bolstering the nape of his neck. For long hours he deliberately ignored the one seated at the edge of the bed. Elladan. They had not spoken since the elder twin had entered the room. It was then their father took his leave, requesting Elladan stay with his brother until it was time to prepare for the feast. It could have been hours, it could have been minutes, the younger twin did not care. He had, on purpose, refused any attempt of conversation made by his brother and had continued to stare at the ceiling with unseeing eyes.

He withdrew his attention from the vast white ceiling when someone slowly opened the door. Leaning on his elbow, he straightened himself to be able to see the newcomer, hoping that his father had returned to allow him to escape this silent room and, above all, his brother, whom he had decided to stay angry with until the beginning of the celebration. Elladan might be his elder, but only by five minutes. He had no right to pamper him like a babe. What were five minutes to a being who had lived two thousand years? Elrohir grew weary of his brother's constant vigil, and was determined to prove it was not necessary. 

Well… At least, he would try…

He expectantly watched as the door swung open on its hinges. A lithe figure appeared in the doorframe and to Elrohir, it was as if a ray of light had entered the room. His breath caught in his throat and he froze, not daring to avert his gaze lest the beautiful creature before him disappeared. 

A rush of blood in his veins made his heart restlessly beat, noisily pound in his chest like the fast hooves of an untamed colt running in the wild. A wave of heat unexpectedly overwhelmed him, eliciting a delicious shiver the length of his spine. He felt the slight quivering of his hands and was unable to stay the movement but he did not care. He was too absorbed by the swirling emotions in his mind. He became oblivious to the world around him. Oblivious to the constant pulsing of blood in his temples, or of the anger toward his overprotective brother. He was even oblivious to himself as his attention was completely focused on the elf that had entered the healing room.

His subjugated sight did not catch the weariness in the visitor's stance. Neither did he see the stained bandage upon his arm, the torn travel clothes, and slightly dishevelled hair. He did not see all these details because his attention was drawn elsewhere, completely attracted to the fair and pale features of the unknown visitor. Never in his long life had he contemplated someone so beautiful and so proud. 

His heart beat furiously in his chest when he realized the fair stranger was staring back, pinning him to the bed where he lay.

Elrohir tried to remember how to breathe as the cerulean gaze sought his own. But soon, it did not matter anymore, as he suddenly found himself locked in a pool of blue sea, lulled there by a flickering sparkle in the piercing and knowing gaze.  

Indeed, all that mattered were the two pairs of eyes locked together in a speechless conversation.

He had forgotten his brother, his injury and the celebration. Everything that had had some kind of importance in his life a few seconds ago did not matter anymore. His present and his future were revolving around those bewitching blue eyes. It seemed to him that he would never get enough of that sight. Yet, it did not seem wrong for him to stare so openly. It felt too good to be wrong. It felt like peace and turmoil, like ice and fire. It felt like himself. It felt like home.

There was perfection in that instant…

Then something changed, and it took his breath away. This pool of blue shadow changed, as if a veil had been mercilessly stripped away. Elrohir never knew that peering into one's eyes could reveal so much about someone. Those eyes were no longer clouded, but became a window into his soul. In this unguarded gaze, the younger twin saw many things: fear, pride, shadow, light....many contradictory elements that composed the essence of this fair being's soul.

How long did they stare at each other? It could have been hours, but truthfully, it had been only seconds, not even enough time for Elladan to notice. Elrohir did not realize this, for he was floating in a dream world where time held no meaning. This world held only a color of deep blue... filled with emotion.

Regretfully, he felt himself brought back to reality when someone spoke. It took him a moment to realize it was the healer who broke the spell. His eyes were no longer locked in that mysterious ocean, and the feeling of loss overwhelmed him. Desperately he tried to reestablish the connection, like a drowning person fighting to breathe.

"If you would follow me, my Prince…"

My Prince…

He failed to comprehend the meaning of those words as they echoed in his ears, swirling in an explosion of contradictory notes.  
  


My Prince…  
  
The blood in his temples seemed to give rhythm to the words, like a mad overexcited drummer.  
  
My Prince…  
  
He watched as the lithe figure moved to one of the private rooms and a wave of heat overwhelmed him. A wave of powerful lust and yearning. He felt an irrational need for complete possession. The need consumed him, taking hold of his body and his mind.  
  
My Prince…  
  
He lay again on the soft pillow, his raven hair spread around his face, his arm under his neck in the same position as before, and he resumed his contemplation of the vast ceiling. He breathed deeply, relishing the cool sensation of the air filling his lungs. This time, upon the immaculate white of the ceiling, the ghostly image of beautiful blue eyes looked back at him.   
  
My Prince…

TBC…  
  
  



	10. Reflections

Chapter 10: Reflections

Many many thanks to Bev and Dorothy for beta-reading that chapter. I don't know what I would do without you, dear ladies… 

AN: This is the final version of that chapter. Not a lot changes, but now I find it at my liking.

I hope you will like it also. And thank you for the lovely comments. I have no time to answer each of you personally, but let me tell you that I am most grateful for your words. Thanks again and now, here is the story.

**

"What do you think of this little Princeling, my friend?"  
  
Glorfindel took the offered chair and looked at the raven-haired Peredhel Lord. Slightly inclining his head and pushing aside a strand of golden hair shining in the daylight, he teased his old friend.  
  
"I would have thought you would be more interested in the message itself than in its bearer, my Lord."  
  
Elrond could not suppress his warm smile at the seneschal's answer. Glorfindel was one of the rare people who dared tease him. Instead of being offended by the brutal frankness, he found his friend's attitude somewhat refreshing.   
  


"The message is obscure. It is a request for a meeting to discuss the encroachment of darkness into Mirkwood. Honestly, I do not know what to make of it. It is not like Thranduil to ask anyone for aid, especially me. I fear the situation may be extremely serious. But tonight..."  
  
"But tonight is not a night for such worries" interrupted Glorfindel as he smiled. "I think you may have to explain to Erestor your interesting theory about these concerns. He is more than tense, and I have never seen him so stressed. You should have seen his face when I informed him that a Prince of Mirkwood would stay among us to attend the celebration. He would not have looked more desperate if a Balrog had attacked Imladris…   
  
A melodious chuckle escaped Elrond's lips at the sudden sound of hopelessness in the Seneschal's voice when referring to Erestor. He himself had long ago abandoned the thought of changing the raven-haired counselor's mind.   
  
"Erestor will always be Erestor, Glorfindel", sighed Elrond, before adding with a casual gesture of his hand to enhance his words, "Nothing and no one will ever change him. But do not worry, his mood will improve tomorrow and he will become once again the nice, quiet elf we know.  
  
Glorfindel raised a golden eyebrow, looking somewhat dubious.   
  
"I hope so, but I am sure that at this very moment, he is arranging the table seating to place the young Thranduilion next to you." 

At those words, Elrond's expression changed a little. Becoming serious again, he sought his friend's gaze and said:

"I would like to ask you something, my friend" Seeing that Glorfindel had nodded in ascent, he continued: "I would like to have you entertain the little princeling tonight. Usually, I would have asked to my sons to attend to such a task, as they are more his age than you are, but…"

"But, you are not sure that your sons' exuberant company would befit the young Prince", interrupted for the second time the golden-haired elf. Signifying his Lord's opinion with a vigorous nod, he said: "I agree with you, but I'm not sure I will be more appropriate for this task. He does not look like someone that can be easily reached, you know. He is far too distant for his age, if I may daresay."

Sighing, Elrond smiled sadly and looked for a moment at a beautiful little golden bird, waddling and skipping on the edge of the open window, before answering:

"I agree with you, Glorfindel. I have noticed it while we were discussing Mirkwood. But his apparent detachment is a mask. You have met more wood-elves than I have, my friend. You know that they do not often show their emotions." With a light chuckle, he added. "Thranduil is the only one I have ever seen losing his temper…"

The blond seneschal laughed openly, his musical laughter filling the small office before he corrected, wielding a mischievous forefinger toward the Lore Master:

"But Thranduil had not exactly been raised as a mere wood-elf, Elrond. And if I may suggest something, I think you are the only one that has this effect upon him. Just as he is the only one who can truly anger you…"

Elrond sadly smiled, his friend's words awakening dark memories in him. Glorfindel indeed spoke the truth. Since the end of their friendship, every time they had met, the encounter had ended in cries, insults and curses. And, even if he hated to admit it, those very unlordly manners had not only been on Thranduil's part. Sighing, he acknowledged the spoken truth:    

"You are right as ever, my friend…" Chasing away echoes of the past, he added more lightly: "Even if I think the twins can compete with him in that particular matter"

Glorfindel smiled warmly and rose to pour them some of the light wine that he had brought with him. He watched the glinting of the velvety liquid sparkling against the crystal glasses. A pleasant scent of spice and freshness emanated from the wine that he inhaled with delectation. The soft wine was a product of the vale, the sweet flavoured grapes were cultivated on one of the farthest hills and made a light and delicate wine, that could be consumed without too much danger of intoxication. He offered one of the two glasses to his dark-haired friend before sitting again. Then, remembering the first subject of their conversation, he said:    

"His son looks very much like him"

Elrond breathed in deeply of the spiced scent of his wine before swallowing a cautious sip of the red liquid. He nodded his approval when the fresh fruity taste invaded his mouth, then he replied:  

"Yes, but I do not remember such reserve in Thranduil when he was young"

The blond advisor's reply came immediately and Elrond noticed the deep interest flaring in his voice:

"One could understand him. He has grown up within the shadows of his realm. He has seen death among his kin. Being distant from events is a way for him to protect himself. Remaining emotionless has some advantages, you know: for example, it spares you the grief of loss."

The Lore Master gave himself a few seconds to ponder his friend's words. He decided that he agreed with this intuitive analysis. Then, looking at the golden-haired elf, who had just finished his glass of wine and placed it on the desk, he said: 

"You seem to have taken a liking to the little Princeling, my old friend"

Glorfindel deliberately ignored the emphasis that Elrond had put upon the words "Princeling" and "old", as if to emphasize the large difference in age. Grinning widely, he replied without any hesitation:

"As have you, Elrond. As have you…"

Smiling back, Elrond slightly shook his head. It was hopeless to think that one day Glorfindel would ignore something about him, but he liked him like that. Sipping the remainder of his glass, he stated, changing of subject:

"I have one or two things to ask you about that horribly long and boring report of yours…"   

*

_"Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within."__   
  
_

James Baldwin

*

The warm water felt good on his tense muscles, soothing his weariness, relaxing the ache in his limbs. He let himself be submerged by the restful heat, closing his eyes to savour it and letting his head rest on the edge of the tub. The air was filled with the spiced scent of the oils he had used, which created a musky ambiance of mauve lavender. His sharp hearing easily heard the birds that were singing outside, likely perched in one of the trees bordering the house, their beautiful voices melting in a natural but nonetheless enchanting music. The whistled notes were floating upon the perfumed vapours of his bath, swirling in a delicious and intricate ballet. 

The blond archer sighed and stretched, taking care not to wet the new bandage on his forearm as he placed the injured limb on the edge of the tub. He tried to relax his mind, to empty it of all thought, but found he could not. A pair of intense grey eyes were staring at him, piercing his very soul. No matter how hard he tried, he could not chase them away. They remained in his mind like two brilliant gems. 

He breathed deeply, inhaling the steam from the heated water before he plunged his head below the surface in an attempt to calm his agitation. As he slid into the welcoming heat, the world became muffled. The sounds became distant, the song of the birds a mere shadow to his ears. He stayed there, blue eyes wide open, his long hair floating to form a halo around his submerged features. He remained that way as long as his lungs would allow, and finally sat up when his body was screaming for air. When he emerged from the water's surface, the exterior noises exploded in his ears, bringing him back to reality. 

He was angry with himself. More than angry. It was not in his nature to be upset by anything. Years of discipline had taught him well how to handle any situation. Yet, this time, he had lost control. Simply lost control. And it was a severe affront to his pride. An odd feeling had overwhelmed him and he had not been able to push it back. He had not liked that feeling at all. It made him feel lost and vulnerable. 

  
He could not keep himself from returning the gaze. He simply could not help it, and something had happened. Something that had never happened before, and he was unprepared for it. A connection. A link. A bond. It was if the beholder had known him forever, as if they had shared their strengths, weaknesses, their fears and hope through that one moment. It was as if they were open books to each other. A feeling of completion had seized him. It was an odd and yet very comfortable feeling, like a balm upon the secret wounds of his heart. He could have spent hours there, drowning himself in the depths of those dark eyes. He let go the restraints he held upon himself, opening his mind to this beholder, giving him the keys to his soul

Fortunately, a voice had called him back to reality, pulling him out of that trap he found himself caught in. He had been startled, then grateful for the interruption that had warned him of the danger he was in. He had quickly regained his composure and chastised himself for his behaviour before eagerly following the healer. But he had not been able to leave without glancing one more time toward the owner of that awkward gaze. People would have called it curiosity, he called it weakness and he hated himself more for indulging the treacherous temptation of his mind. He had looked back at the delicate features, and somehow found the strength to avoid looking into those vivid eyes. He had noticed the dark complexion, the high, noble cheekbones, and the angular lines of the clenched jaw. But most of all, he had immediately seen the exact likeness between the beholder and the other occupant of the room that had raised a curious gaze toward him. It had not taken him long to know who they were. 

Indeed, Lord Elrond's twin sons were known well beyond the boundaries of the vale of Imladris. Legolas had always thought they would remain names and hazy images for him. Many stories were told about them. Both were fierce and skilled warriors who had killed many of Sauron's minions, known to lead long and furious hunts that brought them very far from the peacefulness of their realm. The fact that they were twins was renown. Elven twins were rare, an occasional and blessed event among their kin, who suffered a decrease in births as their time on Arda came to an end. The two brothers were objects of barely hidden admiration and curiosity. An aura of mystery followed them, and whispering could be heard when they were near. Many stories were told of them, stories that spoke of blood, revenge, broken hearts, and wild nights. Legolas had never really listened to the gossip around the campfire by warriors trying to forget the hostilities of battle. 

All those stories lauded their perfect likeness. The Peredhel twins were said to be indistinguishable from each other, like mirrored images. But if Legolas knew little about them, he had learned one truth. To him, the brothers were absolutely not identical. Their eyes were different. Their gaze was not the same. While one would look at him and see only what Legolas chose to reveal, the other would know everything about him, even what he failed to acknowledge himself. And to the youngest Prince of Mirkwood, that was not a slight difference. 

Shaking his head to clear unwanted thoughts, the blonde archer combed his tangled wet hair with his fingers. In one graceful movement, he stepped out of the bath onto the stone floor, oblivious to the water dripping the length of his body forming a puddle at his feet. Taking a few steps within the bathroom, Legolas seized a large towel resting on a seat. It was time for him to get ready for the feast.

TBC… 


	11. The feast

Chapter 11: The feast

Here is the final version of that chapter. Many many thanks to Dorothy and Bev for beta-reading. Many thanks also to those who took the time to review…

**

The feast was at its height. Many elves had gathered in the vast reception hall, some sitting at their place, others standing and talking, a glass of wine in their hands. All were clothed in their finest silken robes. It was said that the elves were fair folk, and this night proved it more than any other, for they were a true vision of beauty and grace. Soft, musical voices blended harmoniously creating a soft hum. Sometimes, an enchanting sound of laughter would dominate the joyous hubbub. Robes of silk and velvet mingled in a burst of color...gold, mauve, green, blue and yellow were attuned, as a spontaneous homage to the rebirth of nature. Bright and delicate jewels sparked in the intimate light emanating from the candles of the chandeliers. 

The animated scene was taking place under Lord Elrond's benevolent gaze. Sitting at the place of honor at the head table in his most dignified manner, he was able to see the entire room. Taking a sip of his golden wine, he let his gaze wander aimlessly across the colorful crowd of smiling elves in the vast room. A jumble of unrestrained voices was echoing in the large hall across the high-sculpted ceiling, causing a constant buzz in one's ears. It was a welcome noise, full of joy and life carrying happiness and delight.

The Lore Master liked these moments, when the whole vale came alive and seemed to possess a will of its own. He liked when people were cheerfully smiling, sharing songs and poems, walking and talking together in harmony. These occurrences were too rare and made events such as this more precious. Smiling to himself, he leaned back in his high wooden chair, his hand absentmindedly smoothing the folds of his blue velvet robe. Turning his attention toward his own table, he closely studied the features of those who had, according to the overactive and restless Erestor, the privilege and the honour to dine at his table. His sons, the young Thranduilion, some of his advisors, including Glorfindel and Erestor, and also some powerful yet perfectly boring elves from the area were in attendance. His heart tightened in his chest when his gaze fell on Arwen's usual place that was empty tonight. She had preferred to stay in Lorien this year and he had asked Erestor not to give her place to anyone. Sighing, he decided to ignore the conversation between the notables that seemed by luck to have momentarily forgotten him, and directed his attention to the young Prince of Mirkwood who was sharing an animated discussion with his blond seneschal. 

Elrond had to admit he felt oddly pleased when the room grew quiet as the herald announced the arrival of the Prince. A curious silence had come over the room, and he had to admit that the Prince had managed to avoid looking embarrassed at being the center of attention. He had gone forward, oblivious to the world around him as he respectfully bowed. Elrond noted how his flaxen hair framed his beautiful face. Feeling himself charmed by such beauty, the dark-haired Lord looked into those magnificent eyes veiled with long dark lashes. He found himself wondering how the young one was able to possess such guarded eyes. There was not a hint of disrespect or contempt in the sapphire orbs, yet he could sense the archer's utter reserve held in check. 

Watching the fair Prince, Elrond quickly made a mental note to remember to congratulate Glorfindel on his choice of clothing for the Prince.. If Thranduil's son had managed to look handsome at his arrival in Imladris, he was now simply gorgeous. The green velvet of his robe fit perfectly, enhancing his broad-shoulders and slender waist. He was wearing a pair of dark-blue leggings the same color of his eyes, and no adornment. The simplicity was befitting of him. 

The young Thranduilion seemed to be more eager to speak with Glorfindel than him, and Elrond wondered if this was the effect of the wine. Hearing a part of their conversation, he smiled. They were discussing the bright city of Gondolin, and he had to admit he was surprised to note such interest in history from the wood elf. If memory served, Thranduil was not himself fond of history, preferring, as he would say, living the present rather than rebuilding the past. 

His gaze drifted to his sons that were sitting on the other side of the table, not so far away from the two chatting blond elves. He frowned deeply when he noticed his youngest son's behaviour. Perhaps he should ask Legolas to teach Elrohir about proper behaviour. He could see clearly that his son was not in a good mood tonight and did not even try to hide it, which was really unusual considering his normally cheerful character. His fatherly instinct told him that their earlier argument was not the cause of this unbecoming behaviour. Focusing on his son's taciturn features, his sharp eye caught that his youngest was more than often glancing in the direction of their unexpected guest. Something in the grey eyes of Elrohir made him frown and his puzzlement increased as he realized that the blond elf speaking with Glorfindel was definitely avoiding the twins. It was obvious something had transpired between the two, but he could not determine what. 

He had no time to ponder those thoughts further, as the elf to his right chose this very moment to drag him into the general conversation and he had no other alternative but to follow him

*

Legolas felt the last tinge of remorse in his heart die with the growing heat of his body. Everything was so simple when one did not give a thought to his problems. At the beginning of the feast, he had been very uncomfortable. He could not help feeling guilty about being there, drinking and enjoying himself. He could not stop thinking about his comrades that were waiting for him to return with an answer to their hope. They hoped for a day when Mirkwood would find its former glory and pride. They hoped for a day when they could hold such a celebration without weeping for their dead.

But the wine had chased such thoughts. Legolas was not used to drink much. As a warrior, he had to keep a clear mind. But what would he risk here? There was no threat, no orcs nor spiders constantly watching your every move. He could enjoy the feast and forget his worries for the time being.

But something else was plaguing his mind. He knew that if he turned his head, his would see those tortuous grey eyes. He had felt them since the beginning of the feast. He had been introduced to the owner of that piercing gaze. Elrohir. Elrohir Peredhel, Lord Elrond's youngest son. Something in his heart had warned him of the danger of crossing that gaze another time and he had been very cautious to avoid it. He could not afford to lose control once more. Too dangerous. Too unpredictable. Everything was about control. But that was not enough. The gaze fixed upon him was driving him mad, awakening a burning fire in his loins and making him shiver. A slow chill ran the length of his spine and he closed his eyes briefly, trying to concentrate on whatever Lord Glorfindel was saying to him. 

He was enjoying this more than he should, he thought bitterly. But who minded? Not everyone had the opportunity to speak with such a warrior and hero. Legolas had to admit that he liked the golden Elda very much. This was not something he would tell his father, of course, but he was enjoying their conversation. He took another sip of his drink, feeling the warmth invade his stomach. In spite of all his efforts to ignore it, he felt eyes upon the nape of his neck, reminding him that he as being watched. 

He emptied his crystal glass before smiling brightly at the Balrog slayer, pushing aside the image of the gray eyes looking at him with such intensity, and tried to replace them with the vision of the blond seneschal's shining blue eyes.

*

_"For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul."__   
  
_

Judy Garland

*

The youger twin could not tear his gaze away from their guest. He was attracted to the flaxen-haired prince just as moths were drawn to light. He could not help himself. He was stunned by this uncommon beauty and by the shivering gleam in those huge blue eyes. Never had he seen such pale skin, such pure features, such shining hair, such a piercing gaze. He longed to touch this fair being, to see him lose his perfect composure while being taken in the most intimate way. He wanted to shatter the unreadable mask the Prince was wearing. To force him to look at him with those magnificent eyes of his. At this very moment, nothing was more important to him than these perfect and full pink lips moving in sensual harmony, speaking words that sounded like delightful music. 

Lust threatened to overwhelm him and he did not give a darn about trying to make idle conversation with those around him. After all, he would not have been able to have a proper conversation with anyone at the moment. Luckily, the maiden sitting on his left was engaged in conversation with the person next to her, and the elf sitting on his right was his own brother. Elladan had not failed to notice Elrohir's dreamy expression since the feast began nor his thinly veiled interest in the Prince of Mirkwood. There was indeed little that each brother did not notice about the other. Deciding to have a little fun at his brother's expense, Elladan leaned toward Elrohir and delicately purred matter of factly. 

"Something tells me that you are not insensitive to the charms of the feast".

With an endearing chuckle barely heard over the sounds of the feast, he continued. 

"It is true the feast is a success. Fine food, delicious wine, genteel music.. and most of all, such fine guests!"

Elrohir unsuccessfully tried to contain the violent chill running the length of his spine when his brother emphasized the last word and directed his gaze toward the object of their attention. In a mocking tone, Elladan continued to bait his brother. 

"But it seems that the fair princeling has already found a playmate for tonight's" 

Elrohir suppressed the need to wipe the stupid grin from his brother's face. Instead, he lifted his glass to his lips and took a large gulp of the amber liquid. He had already noticed the furtive exchange between the blonde Elda and the fair Princeling, and did not find it to his liking. He saw the lust in their eyes as time went on, and for the first time in his long life felt the stab of jealousy in his heart. He tried to chase this uncomfortable feeling away but failed. He was very aware that his reaction was truly childish but he couldn't help feeling as if someone was playing with a toy that he wanted for his very own.

He was barely aware of his father rising and bidding the guests follow him into the ballroom. He stopped daydreaming when he saw the lithe body he had admired so much merging into the crowd of the other elves. He did not move, but instead sat in his chair watching the large wooden doors, absently toying with a piece of bread he rolled between his nervous fingers. He had never felt such lust for anyone before. It was as if he was consumed by it. Licking his dry lips, he lifted his cup one last time and emptied it in one swallow. Then, turning his head, he raised his gaze and crossed his brother's gray eyes. For two, maybe three seconds, they kept staring silently at each other. No words were spoken because none were needed to understand the other. Then, turning his head, he made eye contact with Elladan. For a brief moment, they stared silently at each other. No words were needed to understand each other. 

Elladan made the first move, breaking the perfect alchemy of the moment. Finding a bottle of wine on the table, he filled his cup and drank it down, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A ghost of a smile lit his fair features. There was no playful _expression on his face any longer. This was the smile of a predator, self-confident and skilled. Offering his hand to his brother, he encouraged him to stand. They were barely a few inches apart, noses almost touching, their breath mingling. Elladan smiled sincerely this time, his expression echoed in his brother's face. 

They were symmetry. Harmony. Beauty. 

Perfection. 

The elder twin broke the silence. 

"Brother, there are plenty of maidens waiting for us. We should not disappoint them".

*

His head was spinning, but he kept dancing, his arm wrapped around the waist of a breathless maiden. Her laugh reverberated in his ear, and in one brief lucid moment, he realized she was drunk. "As I am" he thought to himself. 

It mattered little. Tonight was the only night when people allowed themselves this frivolity, for they did not carry on this way any other time. Tonight was the celebration of the beginning of summer. A night suspended in time, when elves were truly alive and celebrated that fact. Long before he was born, this night must have had some religious meaning, but this meaning had been lost with the passing of time. Now, it was a joyous celebration of life; a night dedicated to wine, miruvor, dance, laughter, seduction...and sex. 

He and Elladan would have missed this special event for naught. Wherever their wanderings might lead them, they were always home for this special day. This year, they arrived just in time to see the whole vale come alive. If one concentrated hard enough, the music could be heard for miles around. Those not attending the celebration could enjoy the music nonetheless.

He continued to dance, holding tightly to the slightly drunken maiden. They twirled again and again while he tried desperately not to lose his balance, knowing he was failing miserably. Honestly, he did not care. Who did? Everyone was drunk, and it was not unusual to see couples colliding into one another. Diverting his attention from his steps, he tried to locate Elladan. He had seen him only minutes--or had it been hours-- ago, unabashedly kissing a blushing blonde she-elf while they danced. He saw no trace of his twin, but did see his father, laughing as he sat near the musicians in the company of many notables from the region. Elrohir turned his attention back to the sweet she-elf pressed against his chest, forgetting for the moment his fickle twin who was no doubt devouring his prey in a dark corner of the house.

Grinning, he missed his step and caught up himself with aptness. He was really very drunk, but that did not seem to bother the blushing maiden hanging on his neck. Gathering his wits, he tightened his embrace upon her slender waist and took a closer look at her face. She was tall, with misty hazel eyes. Her features were soft and framed by long locks of brown hair. By Elven standards of beauty, she was pretty though nonetheless common. But in his current state of mind, he found her very attractive and desirable. A rush of heat spread into his loins, making him suddenly shiver, and not from the cold. Bending over her ear, he endeavoured to lick the length of it, lingering at the tip of that very sensitive part of the Elven body. He could feel her shudder, and a smile came to his lips as he seductively whispered in her pointed ear. 

"Would you like to find a more private place?" 

Without waiting for an answer, he took her by the hand and led her far from the boisterous gathering. As soon as they were out of sight, he crushed their bodies together and captured her delicious lips. The kiss was tumultuous and passionate and she welcomed it without hesitation. Their tongues melted, fighting and caressing, sucking and licking, mimicking the act they were both eager to commit. When they broke apart to catch their breath, Elrohir sensuously whispered, his lips ghosting across hers.

"I think you have not seen the gardens yet. They are the most beautiful part of the house and it is the best place to see the stars." 

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Elrohir found that he was more drunk than he realized, and had trouble suppressing an outburst of laughter. As soon as they reached the beautiful garden, he felt more stable on his feet. Enfolding the giggling maiden into another embrace, he kissed her deeply. Their walk took them much longer because they stopped every two steps to repeat this act. He kissed her again, caressing the soft skin of her arms and neck, and could feel her shudder with lust as he cupped her breast with his hand, his thumb playing across her stiffened nipple.

Half walking, half kissing, they headed toward the gardens, finally finding themselves in front of the large glazed door. But there, Elrohir's dulled hearing picked up the musical sound of an Elven voice. Sighing, he turned to lead her to the eastern gardens, inwardly cursing those who had chosen these gardens for an evening conversation. Suddenly, a sense of recognition blazed through the hazy mist in his mind. 

Glorfindel. 

TBC…


	12. Silent eyes

Yes! Here it is… The last chapter of the story. I hope you will like it! Many many thanks to Bev and Dorothy for beta-reading. Many thanks also to those who reviewed…

**

Chapter 11: Silent eyes

Glorfindel. 

The voice belonged to his father's seneschal. With a strong feeling of foreboding, he forgot the maiden that was kissing the nape of his neck, pressing her generous breasts against his back, her hands roaming his chest and thighs, deliberately avoiding his swollen crotch. A premonition drove him to assuage his curiosity. Bolder, he went forward to see with whom the Balrog slayer was speaking . 

At first, he saw only two golden heads whose hair shone in the flickering light of the torches hanging on the wall. But if his sight failed him, his hearing did not. He had no trouble recognizing to whom the musical laughter belonged. For the second time that night, Elrond's youngest son felt a stab of jealousy in his heart. 

Both elves were sitting on the edge of the stone fountain. They were literally gleaming under the light of the stars and Elrohir could not help but find the scene beautiful and very arousing. The were sitting with the listlessness provided by alcohol, their pale skin glowing and reflecting the shadows of the night, in a proximity the twin found strangely intoxicating. Between them, resting on the cold stone, were two empty bottles. 

A nervous laughter came to Elrohir's lips that he quickly mastered. He had never seen his old teacher drunk. Glorfindel was usually the perfect model of virtue and dignity. He could not help but wonder what had happened to his the Glorfindel he knew. Was it the Prince's presence that troubled the seneschal thus? If this was the case, the younger twin could not blame him. He had experienced himself the intoxicating effects of his proximity. The dark-haired elf wickedly smiled. He would be more than happy to remind the reborn elf about that particular event. 

But the grin quickly faded from his lips when he saw the older elf bending over the Prince of Mirkwood and whispering something in his delicate ear. He could almost make out the light shiver of the younger elf, elicited by Glorfindel's breath on his warm skin. He did not pick up what had been said, but it must have been very amusing because bewitching laughter could be heard throughout the garden, filling Elrohir's heart with a new wave of irrepressible lust. 

The maiden hanging on his neck stopped her ministrations, seeing that her partner was no longer responsive to her ministrations. She opened her mouth to speak but found herself silenced by the mouth of the younger twin before she had the opportunity to utter a single word. Breaking the kiss, he murmured sweetly in her ear.

"Wait a minute. The garden is not empty, but it seems that they are leaving." 

It was a lie, of course. Neither Glorfindel nor the wood elf seemed to have any intention of leaving the garden. Even if they had wanted to, they would have had a difficult time of it since they were drunk. Elrohir wanted to watch them, drinking in the sight of the wood elf. He did not know why he acted so. Truth was, he didn't want to know. He slowly released the she-elf after assuring himself she would be silent before he redirected his attention to the pair sitting in the garden. 

Glorfindel had pulled from nowhere a small bottle of miruvor and filled their glasses with the clear liquid before giving one of them to his companion. With an unsteady voice, he asked.

"What shall we drink to?" 

"Don't mind" came the laconic reply from the Prince, his eyes fixed on the starry sky of Imladris. 

With an unperceivable grin, Elrohir acknowledged that the Prince of Mirkwood seemed to have a better resistance than the Elda to the powerful wine. A trait no doubt learned from the dwarves living not far from the borders of Mirkwood. 

Deciding not to change the subject until he could think of a proper toast, Glorfindel stared at the glass in his hand as if seeking an idea in the swirling liquid. Licking his lips, he spoke his toast.

"To love?"

The two Imladris elves were not prepared for the monumental laughter that shook the archer's lithe frame. Vexed that his proposition had not been welcomed, the Elda asked pompously, his ability to express himself somewhat slowed by the effects of the wine he had consumed.

"May I know what you find so ridiculous?"

The Prince's eyes fell on a distant point, losing their focus as the seneschal's question brought back long-forgotten memories. Silence fell on the couple in the garden, only troubled by the dull sounds from the feast somewhere in the manor. A bitter smile ghosted his lips. 

Love. 

What was love for him? 

Pain and suffering. Love was an oath, an old promise never to give his heart to anyone. Love was tears. Love was grief. Love was death.

Brushing his eyes as if to wipe away tears and becoming suddenly very serious, the Prince did not answer immediately. Silence filled the gardens for what seemed an eternity. Looking at the blond seneschal and smiling sadly, Legolas spoke in a soft voice. 

"You still think love is an ideal…"

"What?" Glorfindel could not help but find that very strange. A voice in his head warned him that he was taking a dangerous path but his drunken mind did not register the caution. "You do not believe in love… How strange and unusual for someone as young as you."   
  
Ignoring the frown from the other at the mention of his age and forgetting his wish to toast, he sipped the potent drink and continued, trying to sound as serious as possible but failed as he giggled helplessly. 

"May I ask what you believe in?" 

Seeing that the discussion about the toast was forgotten, the flaxen-haired Prince threw his head back and swallowed the contents of his glass before letting the cup fall upon the green grass.   
  
Hidden and totally mesmerized by the look upon the Mirkwood elf's face, Elrohir did not hear the sigh from the maiden. His whole attention was on the Prince, upon the feline expression gracing his fair features when he got up. The whole world seemed to have stopped. Nothing mattered, save the splendid beauty in front of his eyes. 

"I believe in desire…"

Elrohir felt his breath catch in his throat. Right before his eyes, the Prince changed into something else. He was not just a fair being anymore. This was a predator. Nothing overt, but rather a flicker in the eyes, the wickedness of the smile, and something in his stance. Seemingly unaware of the change, Glorfindel innocently asked, 

"Desire?"

Slowly, the wood elf turned to face him, locking eyes with the seneschal before saying innocently, 

"Don't you?" 

Elrohir felt his hand clench the wooden doorframe as his breath quickened. He did not like the turn of events at all. He could do naught to stop the slow game of seduction going on between the pair. He would have liked to leave his hiding place, but he could not convince his legs to move. He was trapped. Ignorant of the battle of wills going on behind him, Glorfindel answered the Prince's question. 

"I find it sad"

Reclined upon the cold stone of the fountain, Glorfindel showed no sign of moving as he looked at the elf standing in front of him. He knew what was about to happen, but he ignored the warning in his foggy brain. He felt he should stop this game and behave as the Elven Lord he was, but he couldn't. They had gone too far to go back now. He knew they were both drunk, but his body was screaming in need and he could not ignore it. He was aware that they both sought something different, and tomorrow they would regret this foolish act, but he did not care. He knew he should, but he did not. 

Tomorrow would be another day. 

Legolas watched the arousing picture the beautiful elf provided. He knew he should not be doing what he was about to do, but it felt too good. Control. It was all about control, and he needed to regain it. He knew this was wrong, that he and Glorfindel were drunk, but he did not want to stop. It would be too difficult. He saw in those huge blue eyes a reflection of his own desire and need. These eyes were comforting, asking nothing he could not give, eyes so different from the demanding grey eyes playing in his mind even now. A wave of need overwhelmed him, the need to sweep the image of those grey eyes away and replace it with something else. He needed to feel he was back in control. 

"I do not" was the only answer offered by the Prince before he burst into helpless laughter that filled the garden and made the trees sing with him. When he regained control of himself, the fair prince spoke again with no trace of joking in his voice. 

"What is more joyous than the heat in your loins when you first saw one worthy of your attention? Is there any truer rejoicing than the first touch upon the skin of a lover?" 

As he continued to speak, Legolas walked toward Glorfindel, and, like him, Elrohir felt his breath catch in his throat at the sight of the feral beauty before his eyes. His blood was pounding at his temples, and despite of himself, he felt a new stirring in his groin. The words by the wood elf were increasing his state of arousal, more than the maiden's knowing hands, which were like snakes coiling up the length of his legs. Each word, each intonation set his body on fire. He was not listening. He was drowning in an ocean of  sensation awakened in him by the Prince. Nothing mattered except those shining eyes, soft red lips and perfect skin. 

Lust. He was drowning in a ocean of lust. 

But the archer was not aware of his presence, of his desire, or the fire of his senses. He would have given anything to find himself in Glorfindel's place, to be the object of this sensual game. His breath quickened and he grabbed the wooden doorframe with his right hand, suddenly feeling the need to lean against something. 

Step by step, the Prince was approaching the helpless Elda, his words clear and distinct as a water stream running through a green valley. As something ever said and known by heart. 

"Do you find sad the kiss announcing more pleasure? Do you find sad the celebration of two bodies acknowledging their needs, giving and taking freely without asking for more, without boundaries, without thinking to the morrow? Bodies that take the present moment. That enjoy it because it will be brief, if not unique?"

The Prince had reached the edge of the fount and was thereafter cowering behind the seneschal of Imladris, speaking softly next to him, his breath caressing the velvety skin of his cheek, sending shivers in the reborn elf's heart. The words were as a tender lullaby, rocking those who listened to them and let themselves be trapped by their fluid paces. They were spoken so softly that Elrohir would not have heard them without his keen Elven hearing.

"I do not believe in love because it has no place in my life"

That was more than an admission. It was rather a forceful conviction, spoken in a harsher tone that strongly contrasted with the previous lascivious pitch of the Prince's voice. Glorfindel opened his mouth to speak but was soon silenced by the calm and unhurried voice:

"To answer the question you would surely ask. It has no place in a life full of dangers and threats. It has no place when the attention of each of us is needed, when on the life of one depends lives of many"

A delicate finger put a rebel braid back at its place and, then, languidly caressing the top of a pointed ear, eliciting a sharp intake of breath from the elder elf that bit his bottom lip in pleasure. Soon, his mouth took the place of his finger and he kissed slowly the sensitive tip. He asked:

"You have lived for two lives, Balrog-slayer. Tell me, have you not seen many eternal loves dying off, killed by centuries of habit? Have you not seen the despair in the eyes of those witnessing the end of their hopes? Have you not seen the grief in their eyes? If you have not, I have…"

Glorfindel had shut his eyes, leaning in the wood elf's embrace, floating upon his words, letting a well-known heat grab his body. 

"I have not your millennia, Glorfindel, but I know that grief is a plague to our race. I have lost as many friends to grief as to the orcs' weapons. But I have never seen anyone die because of lust and desire. On the contrary, no one is more brilliant, more shining than the one who is possessed by this feeling. Desire does not destroy you. It makes you alive…"

A new silence hovered upon them as Legolas slightly withdrew, breaking all kind of contact with the blond seneschal. Glorfindel's eyes snapped open at the feel of the loss and swallowed with some difficulties. Then, the golden Prince whispered softly, his voice seductive and voluptuous:

 "Let me to show you…"

And then, bending over the seneschal's shoulder, he kissed gently his full lips. At first, the kiss was soft and gentle, like a feather touch. But, soon, unsatisfied, the Prince sought to deepen the contact and Glorfindel's lips opened themselves to allow him entry. Their tongues met in a sensual dance, twirling and touching, learning to know each other.

Elrohir's nails forcefully sank in the wood of the frame, his heart furiously beating in his chest at that sight. He was oblivious of the shooting pain in his hand elicited by his act. He had only eyes for the breath-taking vision of beauty formed by the two golden-haired elves kissing under the blessed light of the stars. The sensual kiss seemed to last forever, as they melted together, long fingers twinned in each other's flaxen mane. From his place, Elrohir found himself unable to tell who was who. He could only see a twinning of long and powerful limbs, as the two lovers rolled over the ground, lying on the welcoming grass of the garden. He heard the soft sighs and the low moans coming from the embraced couple and anger and jealousy exploded in his heart. 

He found again the use of his legs as he slowly slid his trembling hand down the length of the doorframe. He turned away, averting his gaze from the gardens. Without saying a word, he took the maiden's hand in his own and led her to a different place in the house. She followed, wide-eyed, noticing immediately the change in his mood, but said nothing. If Elrohir noticed her expression, he did not acknowledge it. He did not speak nor try to kiss her until they reached the eastern gardens.

This garden was empty, and they had only taken a few steps when he turned, enfolding her into a passionate embrace, devouring her lips with his own. No longer was he tender as he violently kissed her in his unfulfilled arousal. The maiden did not protest and allowed herself to lay back upon the grass. She asked him nothing. Perhaps it was because she did not mind, or did not want to anger him further. Instead, she opened her arms and welcomed him between her thighs, offering herself to him, letting him caress her as she caressed him in return. 

Lips crushed against lips in feverish kisses. Tongues fought against each other. Skin touched skin as they frantically embraced.

She was unaware that when he touched her, it was not her female body he saw in his mind's eye writhing in need beneath him. She did not know the he vengefully kissed her lips as he would have liked to kiss another's. She didn't realize that when he filled her with a cry of pleasure and his gray eyes locked with her hazel, the eyes he envisioned were of the deepest blue. As the thrust into her with strength and skill, his mind played images of two naked male bodies, wet with sweat, blond hair soaked, dancing the age-old dance of lovemaking.

If she had known, perhaps she would have rejected him and walked away. But she did not know till the moment orgasm took hold of her body, her back arching in a vain attempt of deeper completion. Floating upon the pleasure coursing through her supple body, she heard well the name her lover cried before heavily collapsing on her.

Legolas. 

She closed her eyes as she gathered him in her arms and said nothing. It did not really matter, after all.


	13. Epilogue

~ Epilogue ~

Anar was high in the sky when a lone rider left the sleeping manor of Imladris, eager to bring back to his father the answer to his request. Urging his horse to go faster, he crossed the plain surrounding the tall construction, quickly reaching the top of the nearest hill. But, then, as if pushed by an unconscious need, he stopped his valiant steed and looked back, memorizing the glorious image of the vale and manor. He felt in his very core something was calling him back, and a feeling of incompletion seized him as a reminder of what might have been. The Prince chased these feelings away, repressing the unwanted emotion deep into his heart. Gently patting the neck of his powerful white stallion, he murmured words of encouragement in Naralod. Soon, the rider and steed disappeared into the shining light of day, ignorant of the pair of identical eyes fixed upon them. 

Indeed, in the manor, the twins were looking at the vanishing figures by the window of Elrohir's room. The elder twin had come in a few minutes earlier to find his beloved brother staring at the lone silhouette moving away. Soundlessly he stepped behind him, encircling his slender waist with his strong arm, nesting his chin in the hollow of his brother's shoulder. Together they watched the retreating rider until he was only a point of light on the landscape. They remained as such until the silence was broken by Elladan's spoke in a concerned voice. 

"He is a Prince…"

Elrohir did not avert his gaze, his face still and straight, his jaw clenched. One of his hands lay on the edge of the window, the other resting on his brother's arm. Slowly, almost regretfully he replied, his voice devoid of any emotion.

"I know"

Elladan brushed back a wild strand of raven hair that barred his brother's pale features, caressing the velvety skin before letting his hand fall back to Elrohir's waist. Another moment of silence was broken when he spoke again. 

"He is beautiful…"

Elrohir suppressed a shudder, but he knew that as close as he was, Elladan felt it. His gaze fixed on the top of the hill where the Prince had disappeared, he answered in the same disembodied voice,

"I know"

Elladan deeply inhaled his brother's scent, so alike his own, yet so different. Elrohir knew what Elladan was going to say, but nonetheless he said it, not wanting to see his beloved brother suffer because of this unattainable hope. 

"He is not meant to be yours…"

At these words, Elrohir half closed his eyes and slightly turned to face his brother. He raised his gray eyes toward him and looked into his eyes. He heard what his brother did not say. A prince was supposed to take a wife and have children. He knew this, but it did not quell his desire for the fair being. Resuming his serene contemplation of the vale, he repeated himself.

"I know"

Elladan understood that no more would be spoken on this subject. Nestling again against his brother's neck, his cheek resting on unbraided dark locks, his breath tickled Elrohir's skin as he whispered. 

"Good"

Silence befell them again as they hugged themselves tight, still looking out of the window at the vale of their childhood. Memories surfaced, reaffirming in their silent way their childhood oath. Whatever might happen, they would always be there for one another.

The end.

Here, it is… First part of the BSS series is completed and I am feeling very happy and satisfied. I hope you enjoyed reading the story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Once more, thanks to those who read and especially those who reviewed. The next story is coming soon. It will be a short one about what happened to cause the drift between Imladris and Mirkwood.

Once more, thanks and see you soon. 


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